Lessons
by CountessofRothes
Summary: On the rooftop Christine told Raoul, "When the time comes we shall leave, but if I then refuse, you must carry me off by force!" Erik later said to Christine, "If you loved me, I would be as gentle as a lamb; and you could do with me as you pleased." But would either of these predictions come true? And…should they? "Your hand at the level of your eyes," said the Persian...
1. Chapter 1

Hello! Here you will find a story that has been in the works for years at this point, having begun its life as a short story fluff piece, and slowly but surely metamorphosed into a multi-chapter beast spanning decades in the characters' lives. I hope everyone likes it! _Lessons_ is heavily Leroux-based, but ALW-friendly.

I welcome any and all criticism. That's how I can become a better writer. Anything from a typo to a problematic plot point; if you think something could be improved, please do let me know!

A million thanks to my wonderful beta-reader, MarySkater. Despite being on the other side of an ocean from me, she has held my hand throughout the last five years, helping, editing, inspiring, and being a friend. This story would never have become what it now is without her invaluable assistance.

 **Lessons**

 _Chapter 1. July, 1887. Three months after the wedding. Friday._

"Madame Giry, teach me how to cook."

"To cook? What do you mean, Christine?"

"I mean, to cook! I want to be a good wife, and shouldn't a wife cook for her husband? I was thinking that maybe that would help…"

"Whatever is wrong, child? Are the two of you not getting along?…Well, come inside, at least, don't stand there in the hall…There, that's better. Now, what is wrong between the two of you?"

Christine's pretty face turned sulky. "He's… _working._ "

Madame Giry looked blank. "Working?"

"On a new opera," Christine elaborated, and the older woman nodded in sudden understanding. "He won't eat, and he won't sleep, and he won't talk to me or even look at me!" Her voice was rapidly rising to a whine. "I had to shout at him this morning to get his attention even long enough to tell him that I was going to visit you, and I think he was _glad!_ He told me to stay as long as I liked!"

"Well, I can't blame you for being upset," observed Madame Giry. "I must say, I've never seen anything like that man when he's composing. But do try to remember, dear, that he has been alone for a very long time. Up until quite recently, he has never had to worry about how his behaviour might affect anyone else."

"Well, it _does_ affect me!" Christine wailed. "I don't think he even came to bed last night! I had put on my nicest wrapper, and I might have been that awful mannequin, for all he noticed. I could have drowned in the lake and he wouldn't have even looked up! And I…I had something to _tell_ him…" Adele Giry looked immediately alert.

"Christine," she said, putting her hand kindly on the younger woman's arm, "are you telling me that…you have a _surprise_ for him?"

Christine nodded, beaming now. "I've thought so for a little while now, and…and I went to the doctor two days ago, and he said yes!"

"Already?" asked the widow, giving Christine a gimlet eye. "You have barely been married three months. Or did the two of you, ah, anticipate your vows, so to speak?"

"Oh, no!" said Christine, shocked. "Not at all. I didn't know it would happen this fast, either. But – " she faltered, searching for words, and then continued, "My husband is a very… _passionate_ man."

"That he is," agreed Adele, very dryly. "And he has, as I said, been alone a very long time. I take it, then, that the conversation we had on your wedding day was helpful?"

Christine blushed to the roots of her hair. Then she went on, trying to direct the conversation away from that topic, "I went straight home to share the news, and I found him sitting at that piano of his, thundering away on it and scribbling notes down! He wasn't doing that when I left, he was going up to frighten the ballet girls – " Adele raised her eyes to the ceiling at this. "I don't know what set him off, I never do. We can be having a wonderful time, and all of a sudden he gets this glazed look in his eyes and makes a beeline for the piano or the organ, and that's that until he decides to stop! It might be hours, it might be days! How can he treat me like this if he loves me?"

"I don't think there can be much doubt that he loves you," said the older woman sardonically. "He went to far too much trouble over it."

"Then _why_ doesn't he seem to want anything to do with me sometimes?"

"I think this may be a long conversation," said Madame Giry, sighing. "And I am being a terrible hostess. I'll make some tea – were you going out marketing? Here, I'll take the basket."

She set aside her guest's bonnet and gloves as well, setting them in the empty basket, and they went into the Girys' kitchen, where Christine sat down at the table, allowing her fluffy lawn skirts to spread around her. The flat was quiet, as Meg and her brother and sister had all gone to a street fair. Adele put the water on to boil, cut up some cake and placed it on a serving platter, and put out forks, napkins, cups and saucers. When the water boiled, she poured it over the tea leaves and set it in the middle of the table to steep. Then she sat down across from Christine and said gently, "I think, my dear, that you will just have to give him time to learn how to be a husband. It isn't that he doesn't want anything to do with you, it's only that he hasn't ever had any reason not to give himself over completely to his muse. I doubt he has ever learned how to put his music aside when necessary if he is in the mood to compose. Perhaps he even welcomed it before, as something to take his mind off the rest of his life?"

Christine sniffed and wiped her eyes on her handkerchief. "Perhaps you are right," she said, a slightly tender note entering her voice. "After all, I am needing time to learn how to be a good wife. I've kept the house clean, and I've tried to dress nicely for him, and talk to him when he wants me to, and…well." She blushed again, touched her stomach self-consciously, and continued, "But, I thought maybe part of the problem was that I can't cook. Up till now, either he cooks or we eat things that don't require cooking in the first place, fruit, cheese, ham, that sort of thing, or we buy things ready-made. But I thought maybe I should be doing the cooking, and maybe he was disappointed that I haven't been."

"Has he ever said anything about it one way or the other?" asked the older woman, eyebrows raised.

Christine shook her head. "No, never. But, isn't the wife supposed to cook for her husband?"

"Usually, yes. But Erik has been, again, by himself for most of his life. He had no choice but to learn to feed himself."

"I don't think he really did feed himself, at least not much," Christine mused. "Else, how could he be so thin? He's gained _some_ weight, I think, probably because I pester him to eat all the time, but not a great deal. It was all I could do just to get him to take meals with me in the first place, regardless of where they came from."

"He has to take his mask off in order to eat, I take it?"

"Oh – no, not necessarily, but it's awkward if he doesn't. That is why he would not eat or drink with me that first time he brought me down below. He will now, but I don't think he's at all comfortable. So I thought, maybe he'd enjoy it more if he knew I'd cooked for him."

Adele was less sure of this than Christine, but was willing to try to help. Likely her devil of a husband would at least pretend to enjoy food his new wife had made. He did, after all, love her to distraction.

"Yes, I will help you learn how to cook," she said, getting up to fetch a porringer, and Christine's face lit up. "What do you know already?" the boxkeeper continued. "Can you cook anything?"

"Some things," answered Christine, "but mostly Swedish peasant food, the things I made for my father and me when we camped alongside the roads we travelled on. A lot of the time, though, we just ate food that people had given us."

"Can you…" Adele cast about for somewhere to start. "Can you boil an egg?"

"Yes," said Christine dolefully, "but that's of no use. He doesn't like eggs."

"Well, then I suggest you not make omelettes for dinner."

"That's how I found out he doesn't like them, actually," answered Christine. "I made omelettes – they weren't very good, but I didn't know what else to do – and there he was sitting stoically at the other end of the table eating away, and I could tell something was wrong. So I asked him what it was, and he said, 'Nothing, it is so kind of you to cook for me,' so I pestered him and pestered him until he admitted he 'doesn't really care for eggs.' "

"How does he expect you to make things like cakes and such, then?"

"Oh, he doesn't mind eggs if they're mixed up in something! But as for cakes, he doesn't seem to like desserts much. I wasn't really expecting to learn how to make those anyway, they can be bought at a pastry shop. If I made a whole cake just for us, it'd go to waste before I managed to eat it all."

"Wait until your children are a few years old," said Adele, "and there will be no trouble about sweets going to waste, I assure you."

Christine smiled, her whole face suffused with a radiant delight. "I've always wanted children," she confided. "A large family! Ever since I can remember. I'm so glad it happened right away."

"If that is the case, it is fortunate for you that you are apparently able to have them," answered Adele, "as some poor women can not."

"Oh, I would be so miserable if that happened to me!" exclaimed Christine. "How can any woman bear it?"

"I suppose for the same reason anyone bears any sorrow in life; because there is no choice. I understand how you feel, though. Like you, I wanted children so much, and Meg and Jeanne, and of course my Pierre, are my greatest joy. It would have been infinitely harder to suffer through Jules' death, if I hadn't had our children to help me. Ah, the tea is ready."

Adele, a skilled enough hostess to remember her guest's preferences, added a good deal of cream and sugar, handed Christine her cup, and poured one for herself, black. "Now, as to your husband's eccentric eating habits. What does he like?"

"I don't really know," Christine admitted. "I don't think he likes food much in general. At least, he never seems to notice what he's eating, whether it's burned or well-prepared or… well, anything. If I can get him to eat twice in one day, I count myself lucky. He looks completely taken aback when I ask him what he likes, as though he's never even considered it. The fact that he doesn't like eggs has been about all I can get out of him."

Adele thought for a moment. "Well, we should probably start with something simple. How about a nice soup, that can be served hot or cold, in case you can't get him to come to the table in a timely fashion? You'd buy some good bread and cheese to have with it, of course, and I'll show you how to make an apple tart. I've never met a man yet who didn't like those."

"You might have met one, remember?" warned Christine. "I've never seen him eat sweets of any kind whatever. He buys them for me all the time, but he always refuses when I invite him to have some."

"Nonsense," said Adele briskly. "I'm sure he will like it if you make it. And if for some reason he doesn't, he'd better have enough manners to pretend to. If he doesn't, you tell him to come and talk to me."

Christine giggled, picturing the stern boxkeeper giving Erik a lecture on manners. He would be highly unlikely to appreciate it.

"You were going out marketing to begin with, before you came here?" Adele asked again, and Christine nodded. "Good, then we will go together and get the supplies you will need soon. It is a good thing it's still early, we will need the time for you to practise. We'll go out to the market and I'll help you select the right things, and then we will go back to your home and make dinner for tonight for the two of you together – Oh, don't worry, if he's in the condition you describe he'll hardly notice either one of us is there. Hmmm…you should probably write down the recipes, too, so you'll have them to refer back to until you become more familiar with French cooking. Here is a pen and paper, start taking down notes. Now, you must begin with chopping some onions. Mince them finely, and then brown them in the usual fashion, until they are a good colour…"

"Wait, what?" Christine begged, scribbling frantically. "What is the usual fashion – for French people, I mean? And what is a good colour?"

"Oh, dear… " said the widow with a sigh.

O-O-O

"Erik…Erik?… _Erik!_ "

" _What?_ "

"Would you like anything to eat?"

" _No_!"

Christine sighed. She'd only just gotten home, and thought perhaps her poor starving husband should have some food now. It would be hours before dinner was ready. By the look of the scowl on his face, however, that was the very last thing he wanted. His face...

He was unmasked, being in their home, and she wondered how she was going to tell him to put it on without making him angry. Adele had bypassed the parlour and gone straight down the hall into the kitchen; since music had been thundering from the piano, he didn't know yet that she was there. If Christine let him stay unmasked until he realised they had company, he'd be furious, but if she told him to put it on while he still thought they were alone, then he would assume _Christine_ didn't want to look at him, and that would just start off a different argument (and one which she was already thoroughly tired of). She stalled.

"I just thought you might be hungry. You haven't eaten all day."

"Yes, I have. I had some bread a while ago."

"Erik, that was _yesterday_... Erik?"

"I'm trying to _work_ , woman!"

"Erik, a human being isn't meant to go without sleep or food for days! You are still too thin as it is – "

"Ah, so that is it. You can not bear to look at Erik and you wish him to eat so that he will not be so repulsive to you. The truth finally comes out."

"Erik, that's not true!" Christine cried, nearly in tears. "I've told you again and again, I don't mind the way you look! I'm just worried about your health!"

"You women always lie – "

"Erik, that will be more than enough," snapped Madame Giry, coming into view. "You have no reason whatever to be so cruel to your wife. She is honestly concerned for you. Do try to act your age."

Erik's mouth dropped open, and he stared speechlessly. Christine had never brought anyone down here before. Then he whirled, snatched up the discarded mask that was lying on a side table, and slapped it onto his face. The long fingers flew expertly through the task of knotting the strings, and then he lowered his arms, turned back to face the intruder and bellowed furiously, "Giry, what are you doing in my home?"

Utterly unimpressed, the widow answered, "Oh, don't bother. It's not as if I don't know what you look like. As for why I'm here, I am keeping Christine company. Since you seem so unwilling to do so yourself."

"Company?" Erik said blankly.

"Yes, company," she retorted, stalking over to the piano to glower down at him, hands on hips. "Companionship. Amusement. Diversion. Choose whatever word you like, it isn't normal or healthy for someone to live without it."

"I did, for years!" Erik shouted, and then looked suddenly dismayed as he realised his mistake. He sat back down on the piano bench with a thump, pointedly turning his back on her.

"Exactly," said Madame, pouncing on the opportunity he'd offered her. "Did you want Christine to end up like that? No, I think not. You have no right to leave her bored and lonely while you pound away on that thing." She gestured derisively at the piano.

"I'm _working_!" said Erik, in tones of outrage. "It's what I do! I am a composer! Christine knows that!"

"Erik, I don't mean that I don't want you to compose!" interjected Christine tearfully, coming to stand on the other side of her husband. "I just don't want you to get so taken up with your music that you don't eat or sleep! It's not good for you! I worry about you!" Her voice was rising, becoming more and more shrill.

"Erik, you must at least _try_ to change," scolded Adele. "You promised you would, remember? On your wedding day. I was there, I heard you."

"Erik, what do you expect me to do around here when you're so oblivious – "

"Erik, what do you think you're going to do with this new composition – "

"Erik, I'm your _wife_ now – "

"Erik, you said you wanted to be like everyone else – "

"For God's sake, you pair of harpies!" roared Erik, slamming his hands down on the keys and making the women jump as the resultant disjointed notes echoed through the room. "Get out, I'm working!"

The two women looked at each other over his head, and then turned as one and went out of the room. Madame Giry closed the kitchen door, leaned against it, and began to shake with laughter. Christine, for her part, wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. She settled for a sort of hysterical giggle.

"Once upon a time, I believe he would have killed someone instantly for appearing uninvited in his home, let alone allowed me to scold him like that," said Adele, recovering herself.

"Why did you come, then?" asked Christine in hushed tones. "How did you dare?"

"I knew already that he had changed," the other woman answered simply. "Letting you go as he did…letting the Vicomte go…marrying you, in broad daylight, in a church…he had to have changed significantly already, or none of that would ever have happened."

Christine looked at her, and, uncontrollable, the memory of the look on his face as she had drawn away from their first kiss rose up, and gripped her heart in its determined hands. Yes. He had changed. She wanted to dwell on that memory, live again the instant when he had realised that now he honestly loved her, instead of only being obsessed with her. It was why he had gone to fetch Raoul for her, after they had shared that kiss.

O-O-O O-O-O


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thank you to all who have reviewed, followed, and favourited! It's so very heartening to know that people besides myself want to read this. I hope you all enjoy the next chapter.

 _Chapter 2. April 1887. The day after Erik abducted Christine from the stage._

She'd ended up sitting on the couch, still in the wedding dress, so exhausted and distraught that there was a haze of unreality over everything. So much had happened in so short a time that she could not now understand it. Being kidnapped a second time…tied up after she tried to kill herself by beating her head against a wall. She could see the red spots on her dress where the blood had dripped from her forehead, and pain still throbbed through her skull. And being forced for interminable hours to listen to Erik alternately berating her for her treachery and begging her to love him. Resisting him with all her strength, unwilling to be any man's pawn, until the appalling realisation that he had Raoul and the Persian, whom Erik had called his friend, locked in his horrible torture chamber, dying in its abominable heat. (Who did that to a friend? She did not think Erik had friends to spare.) Their only hope, her acquiescence. And, even worse than that – if she still would not marry him, Erik would blow up the Opera House and its entire neighbourhood, thousands of innocent people who had nothing whatever to do with her refusal of him, with the barrels of explosives he had in the cellars below them.

There had been no real question anymore of what she must do. She could not choose her own will over the lives of so many people. Erik had won. She had lost. And martyrdom was not nearly as romantic when it was happening to you.

Erik had shown her two switches in the form of little bronze creatures. If she accepted him, she was to turn the scorpion. If she refused him, she was to turn the grasshopper. And they would all be blown up. She turned the scorpion.

She turned the scorpion, feeling as though she were standing aside and watching herself doing it; Erik kept his word and rescued the two prisoners from his torture chamber; they both tended them, until it was clear that they would be all right. Then he'd taken them away. Raoul first, to a dungeon apparently, and then the Persian, to his own flat. And then Erik had come back, alone, and stood there before her, no longer the cruel tyrant, but suddenly and bizarrely shy. And she saw that he wanted to _know_ that she accepted him. There had remained only the need to show it.

So, she had bought Raoul's life, and everyone else's, with a kiss. After it, Erik had laid his hand over both of hers, squeezed in a strangely fitful and preoccupied manner, and then abruptly left without a word. Now she was alone, and there was nothing to distract her from her own mind. But the very last thing she wanted to do was to think, about anything, and so she closed her eyes and drifted off, hoping her head would stop pounding if she rested. In what seemed like only a few minutes, though, there was a noise, and she opened them again, grimacing in pain as the light seared her eyeballs.

Erik was standing at the far end of the room with Raoul, holding him by the shoulder. Seeing the two of them side by side like that, made it obvious just how short Raoul really was, for a man. When they were children together he had been bigger than her, but now her Scandinavian blood had made her an inch or so the taller. And next to the looming figure of Erik, Raoul's compact form looked very diminutive indeed.

Why _was_ Erik back here with Raoul in tow, anyway? Oh…of course. Now that he'd gotten what he wanted, he was keeping his promise to let the Vicomte go. Christine supposed he was trying to show her that her fiancé – her _former_ fiancé, she reminded herself dully – was still alive and well, before taking Raoul away. She knew she ought to be grateful for this knowledge, but she really could not care much about anything just at present. She was too tired and wrung out. Everything was decided finally, and there was nothing left to fight for.

But Erik did not turn and pull Raoul out of the door. Instead, he let his hand drop, and Raoul, with an exclamation of joy, started to run to Christine. A pain stabbed through her, cutting through the cloud of apathy she'd created. She flung up a hand to ward him off, for she could not bear to feel anything. Any possible emotion she could have would hurt.

Raoul stopped in his tracks, shocked, and then swayed and collapsed into an armchair, groaning softly. Was something wrong with him? Likely the after-effects of his time in Erik's torture chamber. He was young and strong, though, and would be all right. She needn't worry about him. She'd bought him his life; she could not do any more, least of all face him right now. He was lost to her, and she could never be his wife. She would be the wife, instead, of a vile madman, a remorseless murderer who laughed at others' torment.

But Erik did not look either mad or remorseless just now, and he certainly was not laughing. The expression on his unmasked face, in fact, was exceedingly odd, and she squinted at him, trying to make it out. Wearily she thought that her happiness would now depend on pleasing him, and warding off the explosions of his terrible temper. She should try to learn how to read him better, if she wanted to ever have any peace of mind. He walked closer to her, staggering as though he were very ill, and then suddenly fell all in a heap at her feet and began to weep raggedly, clutching her skirt desperately and burying his face in it.

Christine started up, shocked out of her stupor. This was not at all the action she'd expected him to take. What did he have to weep for now, when he'd gotten his way about everything? But he was frankly sobbing, in the awful unnerving way that only a man can weep. His tears were getting all over the fabric he held and ruining the satin...no matter. Who cared about a dress? But oh…Erik's grief was horrible to hear. It sounded as though he were in complete despair, and the whole of his long thin body was racked with shudders, as he moaned snatches of sentences so broken that she couldn't grasp their meaning. Why was he so upset? She could not prevent her heart from aching, no matter how much she might want to stay indifferent to everything. It was impossible to see such anguish and remain unmoved.

She had bent to him with compassion and put her hand on his shoulder, and he abruptly quieted. He gasped, inhaled deeply, and went still for a long moment. Christine was about to ask him if he were all right, an abysmally stupid thing to say to any of them just now, but she could not think of something else with which to express her concern. But before she could say anything at all, he had risen to his feet suddenly, more graceful than a cat, took out his handkerchief and wiped his face, and then said, "Wait here, Christine." His voice was no longer shaking, but had regained its ring of irresistible authority, and she did as he ordered.

Then he simply walked away, to the other side of the room. Now he was speaking to Raoul, in a low, urgent tone, but she could not make out the words, and she let her head droop. Everything was too much, Erik's histrionics especially. Her head hurt so badly, and she felt miserably sick now. She thought she just might vomit, and hoped she could make it into the bathroom first if it did happen.

Erik was walking slowly back to her, gripping a dumbstruck-looking Raoul by the upper arm. What did they want of her now? She blinked, grimacing. Hadn't she done enough this night? She wished they would both just go away and leave her in peace. How wonderful it would be to strip off the heavy, confining wedding dress, and lie down in bed and sleep for a long, long time. The Persian was to be envied, if indeed Erik had taken the man back to his own flat as he said he had. It was likely to be some time before she saw hers again.

"There is no need to weep now, Christine. You are going to be married to your young man. Erik will never harm you again. Smile, be happy. I want you to be happy. You see, I love you."

Love, now, no longer obsession. A greater concern for the beloved than for oneself. At the time, she had utterly missed the significance of his last sentence. Too stunned to think, her lips had actually formed themselves into a smile momentarily. It was not a real smile; likely it looked as grotesque as a clown's. But she had been under Erik's control too long for it not to be a knee-jerk reaction to obey him.

"There, you see? Wipe your face, my dear. This is no state to let your bridegroom see you in." He turned to Raoul, standing there as still as if he had turned to stone, and said, "Monsieur, I believe your fiancée is in need of a handkerchief."

Mechanically, as though Erik's voice was working on him as well, Raoul had given her one. She scrubbed it over her face, and then set it aside mutely.

"Stand together before me," commanded Erik. His voice was preternaturally calm and remote, as though he inhabited some other realm than they did. A feeling of unease began to grow, but she could not give an explanation to it. _My God_ , her mind stuttered. _He is_ … _letting us go_. It was too unbelievable for her to fully grasp the implications. What could possibly have brought him to this point?

He took each of their hands and put them together. Erik's chilly fingers were a stark contrast to Raoul's warm palm. Her two men, cold and warmth, dark and light. "Will you take care of her, now that I no longer can?" he asked quietly, and Raoul nodded speechlessly. "Go then, and begin your lives together. Do not remember me. I would not have your happiness ruined."

Raoul had abruptly taken half a step toward Erik, and started to say something; but Erik held up a long white hand and intoned, "No." It was only one word, but it carried within it an overwhelming command that could not be ignored.

Raoul halted, irresolute, and Erik said, "Go now, both of you, and leave me to my fate. It is well-deserved."

Somewhere far away there had been the thought that she should remain with him, and that this made no sense, but it seemed outside of her, unable to penetrate the fog in her brain. She hadn't had the wherewithal to stay, not then. Raoul had been there, his hand in hers, offering her all the clean, simple love he had to give; her nerves had been frayed to bloody bits, her strength drained completely by the recent events. Her head was pounding dreadfully, her emotions sparking one moment and fading the next, so that she had no chance at all of deciding which of them were the true ones.

And no chance of resisting Erik's order. His voice was too powerful. She'd obediently shown Raoul which tunnel led past the lake and to the door on the Rue Scribe, and let him try to pull her along. She'd gone with him, unable to muster the ability to do anything more on her own. They stumbled along, till the heel of her shoe caught on her skirt and tripped her. A wave of dizziness hit her, and she nearly fell.

Raoul grabbed her and steadied her, and then threw his arms around her all of a sudden. He smelled of sweat and fear, and the expensive cologne he used; it was cloying, and she struggled without thinking.

"Shhh, shhh, Lotte!" Raoul panted, stroking her loose hair. It had been down for the last scene of Faust from which Erik had kidnapped her off the stage, and she'd never put it up since. "It's all right, it's only me. You are safe now – _we_ are safe!" He kissed her cheek, and continued, "It's all right, everything's turned out all right after all. It is such a miracle, isn't it? He will not harm either of us ever again. If he isn't dead by now he will be soon."

A shaft of pure ice knifed straight through Christine's heart. She felt as if she had suddenly frozen solid. Raoul was rambling on, entirely confident of her agreement with him, and she forced her numb lips to part so she could speak.

"Wh – _what_?" Her voice was hoarse, and shaking. Erik would be furious if he heard her speaking with it in that condition.

Raoul stopped his monologue, and looked at her curiously. "Why…did you not hear him? You were in the same room."

"Hear…" She could not make her brain function. "Hear…what?"

"That…" Raoul looked suddenly lost. "Oh…I was to wait until we were out of here, and I was so happy I failed to remember that. No matter. Christine, he said he was going to…do the honourable thing."

"What are you talking about?" She knew, then, but couldn't believe it.

"He – he was going to kill himself. He said it would be done as soon as he knew we were safely out of these horrible cellars, and that we would never have to be frightened of him again. I thought…I thought you heard, and were relieved."

 _"Relieved?"_ More horrified than she had ever been, Christine shoved Raoul, hard. He hadn't been expecting that at all, and staggered, nearly falling. "Re _lieved?_ How could you think – Erik! We have to go back, we have to stop him, _now_!"

She turned instinctively to fly to her teacher's side, to fight off the mortal despair that threatened his very life. He could not, he _could not_ do this! To have his golden voice abruptly silenced, his magical hands stilled, no trace of his talents left on earth? It could not happen. In her disordered mental state, it seemed the worst thing in the world.

And Raoul had not let her go.

He'd shot out a hand and seized her arm, whirling her back to face him. "Christine, what are you doing?"

"Going back to stop him! We have to! Hurry!"

"What – have you lost your mind? We've only just escaped him! And you propose to throw yourself back into that hell he has created? Let him die, he deserves it more than any man ever did!"

Christine wrenched frantically at Raoul's hand, but could not budge it. He reached out and grabbed her other arm, the lantern swinging from his wrist on its loop, his sailor's hands full of a young man's strength.

"Stop! What is the matter with you?"

"We have to go back, before it's too late! He can't die, he can't!"

"Christine, he is a monster! He deserves death. He would have killed you if he had the chance, and me, and the Persian. He's evil and wicked through and through, and I only thank God that his madness has somehow allowed him to see the only honourable way out for him!"

Christine was panicking completely. She threw herself from side to side, but was unable to break Raoul's hold. "Let me go, let me go! You can't let him die! _Please_ let me go, Raoul, _please_! Oh God!"

"No, Christine, I won't let you! He must be controlling you again." He shook her slightly, dragging her close and staring into her eyes, but she did not see him. "Don't you remember, on the rooftop?" he panted urgently. "You told me that you would come away with me, but that if you refused when the time came, I was to take you away by force - Christine, _stop_ , calm yourself! You do not know your own mind, and – and you have a head injury, for heaven's sake! It must be preventing you from thinking properly. You can not go back there!"

Struggling, screaming like a madwoman as her hair flew about and obscured her vision, clawing at the man who so recently had been the one she turned to for help, she'd been half-carried, half-dragged from the caverns. Short or not, Raoul had been far too strong for her; she'd had no chance against him. She had never known such terror, such absolute, unreasoning fear at what might be happening behind them, back there where Erik was all alone now with no one to stop him from... She fought with all her strength, and to no avail. Her throat had burned from her howls.

Finally her struggles had overbalanced them both, and she'd fallen hard onto the stone floor of the tunnel as the lantern rolled clattering away. She had momentarily knocked her breath out, and for a minute, all she could think about was breathing. Her ribcage, stunned by the impact, refused to move, and her gorge rose in her throat. She drifted in a wave of blackness, unthinking, unseeing.

Then her lungs gradually recovered the ability to inflate, and she realised she was only winded. It had happened before, when she was a child and fell out of a tree she'd been climbing. It would pass, if she only lay still and stopped panicking. A cold, clear calm stole over her. Erik had said to Raoul that he would kill himself "as soon as they were out of the cellars." Did that mean that he would wait till he knew she was safely free of the labyrinth, and back above ground again? Probably. Erik, after all, was the one who had made this maze of corridors, and he knew better than anyone how easy it was for other people to become lost in them, and wander helplessly until they starved to death. He would not incapacitate himself unless he was sure there was no chance the woman he loved would need his help to get out. There was, then, most likely a little time. Erik had alarms that told him if any of his doors to the outside world were opened. He would know when they were gone, and wait till after that to…do anything.

She could not save him unless Raoul let her go. And he would not. Therefore, she must trick him into doing so. Make him think she had quieted, and seize her chance the very moment his guard was down. He did not know these catacombs as she now did.

She realised that Raoul was calling her name and shaking her arm with increasing degrees of fright. He must think he'd really hurt her. She groaned, and managed to say, "I'm all right. Just…just a moment."

He'd been greatly remorseful, and helped her sit up, and then stand. He apologized profusely, and she pretended to be glad he was there. Raoul, no more world-wise than a child, took that at face value and started them both moving again after picking up their dropped lantern, trying to conceal the fact that he had no idea how to get out of the cellars and that it was actually Christine leading the way. They were very close to the door on the Rue Scribe. Just a few more minutes…please, God, let it not be too late…

They reached the door and she unlocked it with the key Erik had given her, and they went outside. Raoul set down the lantern at his feet, and then, his hands free now, had tried to comfort her as they stood in the street outside the Opera House. Patted her shoulders, smoothed her hair, panted that he'd take care of her now that she'd been through such a terrible ordeal, of course her poor mind was nearly broken. He would guide her now, would make decisions for her, help her recover.

Then he'd leaned in to kiss her, and Christine had jerked away. Raoul had stopped, taken aback, and in that brief second of his hesitation, she'd snatched her opportunity. She'd flung herself at the door in the wall and, knowing its mechanism, had been through it and slamming it shut before the Vicomte realised what was happening. Gasping, she'd barred it as she heard him begin shouting and banging. He would never be able to get through. Only Christine knew Erik's secrets – like the fact that there was another lantern hidden in a tiny alcove right beside the door, and matches. Her hands shaking, she struck one. It flared up, but then went out. Moaning in terror, she tried again, and managed to light the lantern this time. She slammed its top shut, and started to run.

O-O-O O-O-O


	3. Chapter 3

Hello all,

With this chapter, I just wanted to add a brief note of clarification for those of you who have not read the original novel of _The Phantom of the Opera_ by Gaston Leroux: in that story, which is the version of POTO that _Lessons_ is following, the Phantom kidnaps Christine off the stage the very next evening after he overhears her on the rooftop of the Opera House with Raoul. This is quite different from the Andrew Lloyd Webber stage musical, where the Phantom spends six months after the scene on the rooftop in hiding, finishing his opera Don Juan Triumphant, and plotting and planning a way to both force Christine to marry him, and force the Opera to produce his work (which also never happens in Leroux). If anything is ever confusing to you as you read along, please do let me know in the comments.

 _Chapter 3. April 1887. The day after Erik abducted Christine (continued)._

Erik kneeled on the floor of his house, panting for breath. Beside him lay a hammer, and the shattered remains of the devices which, before he had smashed them, had allowed him to hear any sounds that might echo through his web of tunnels. He had created them to allow himself to hear any intruders who might enter his domain; he had destroyed them to prevent himself from hearing the rapturous exclamationsof the two lovers as they climbed up out of the underworld, joyful at having escaped the clutches of Hades, who would never hear such sweet things said to _him_... No, this Orpheus had succeeded in reclaiming his Eurydice, and there was no risk that she might disappear if he turned to make sure she was still following him. In fact, it was likely to be him following her, for the boy surely knew nothing of Erik's labyrinth, and would have no idea how to get out; Christine, however, did know part of it now, so it must be she who was leading the way.

There remained only one alarm, the one which would tell him when the door to the Rue Scribe, and to the outer world, was opened. Christine knew that way out, but there was always the chance that she might accidentally take a wrong turn. And if she did, they would probably never find the door. He could not allow his grief over the loss of her to cause her death. So he remained there, waiting, the momentary surge of destructive energy he'd experienced now exhausted.

He was so _very_ tired. His arms had been trembling with fatigue when he finally dropped the hammer. They were still trembling now. He could not remember the last time he had slept, or eaten. It had certainly been before the episode on the roof of the Opera, and that had been…two days ago. Three? Oh, what did it matter? He would shortly be sleeping permanently. He just had to wait a little while longer, or at least, he thought it would be a little while. It seemed like it ought to have been enough time for them to be nearly to the Rue Scribe, but he was having trouble discerning time, which alternately flowed so quickly he lost track of what was happening, or slowed to a snail's pace, and seemed like a wheel that was stuck, going round and round and never getting anywhere.

Christine had allowed him to share a kiss with her. This fact he was perfectly happy never to move on from. Ecstasy momentarily replacing the wretchedness, he replayed those moments in his mind repeatedly, dwelling on how soft her lips had been, how fragrant her hair, the feel of her trim waist when he had finally dared to rest one hand there hesitantly, oh, so hesitantly, certain that she would draw back in disgust. Such things were not for Erik. But she did not pull away, no, look there, she raised her beautiful face instead, and her lips were parted slightly, and the look in her eyes…

It had been worth waiting fifty years, to have Christine's kiss at the end. Or so it seemed to Erik just then. But then, of course, he could not go on keeping her prisoner. Forcing her to marry him, even in name only. Hurting her. Placing his own happiness above hers. It was all over, then, and he could not continue to carry out his ghastly plans.

Remorse hurt.

Hurt enough to make him renounce any claims he might have thought he had on her; hurt enough to cause him to stagger through his catacombs till he reached the place where he had locked up the boy, and release him, and help him back all the way to Erik's house so that Erik could give him to Christine. The two of them must have looked a right pair of fools, practically holding each other up as they moved. Erik hoped the boy had a strong constitution, since he was going to be the one to take care of Christine henceforth…

Mind wandering again. He felt cold. He'd taken off his coat before starting to smash things, and the exertion had kept him briefly warm, but not now. When was that alarm going to sound?

There. There it was. They were out. All right, then. He rose painfully to his feet, lost his balance, and fell to one knee again. With one hand over his face, he rested the other elbow on his knee, his chest rising and falling unevenly. This was going to be harder than he'd thought. Simply lying down on the floor seemed like an excellent idea, but that would not result in his death. He'd been in this condition before. Exhaustion was not fatal. If it were, Erik would know.

With a Herculean effort, he stood up again, and managed to stay on his feet this time. He stood swaying for a moment, his surroundings wavering before his glazed eyes, and then stumbled slowly in the direction of his bedroom. No…wait…he must take his _Don Juan_ with him, as he had always planned. Where had he left it?

O-O-O

The descent to the underground house had comprised the worst moments of her life thus far. It was such a long way, and there was so little time, and Erik might already be…How long would he wait, after the door had been opened, to make his attempt? She had tried to call his name, hoping his speaking tubes would carry her voice to him and let him know she was coming, but she did not have the breath to do anything more than cry out weakly. Down, down, down she ran, panting for breath, having to stop every so often because of the stitch in her side and the dizziness that came and went intermittently. But after only a few seconds, the terrible fear would assault her again, and she would begin once more, darting like a wraith through the dim caverns, down staircases and around corners, the lantern bouncing in her hand. She reached a spot where Erik kept extra lanterns, flew past it, and then whirled around. If the first one went out, she would be in real trouble. The train of the wedding dress had not spun all the way with her, and she tripped over it and fell flat, the lantern falling out of her hand and rattling several feet away. Its flame guttered, but did not go out, not quite. Erik had designed lanterns which would not, in case one was ever dropped.

Christine rolled to one side, floundering in the waves of satin and lace. Momentarily she flailed uselessly, hampered by the layers of her clothing. Then she got one hand under herself, then her feet, and raised herself up, gasping and holding onto the wall so she could stay upright. Her head was throbbing dreadfully. Her hip and elbows hurt where she'd banged them on the rock. The dress was dusty and torn now, ruined; no matter. Erik's own fault, for making her put it on.

Erik. _Hurry._

She bent and snatched the lantern off the floor, grabbed another and some more matches from the shelf on the wall, and started moving again. Her footsteps, horribly loud in the silence, seemed to beat in time with her pounding heart.

Halfway there.

O-O-O

Erik ran his hand slowly over the leather cover of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Not his only composition by any stretch, but by far the most important, the one into which he had poured his heart and soul, the one which had consumed him periodically for twenty years. His masterpiece. And finally, finally finished.

He'd run down from the rooftop of the Opera, blinded by rage and grief after overhearing Christine's plans to elope with the Vicomte, and gone straight to his instruments, the final pieces of _Don Juan_ pouring out of his fevered, desperate mind like the overflowing of the Rhine, but it was his delusions about her love that were crumbling, not Valhalla… The last sections he'd written were nearly unreadable even to him, as he'd rushed to write them down as fast as he could, before it was time to carry out his newly formed intentions to force Christine's hand and make her marry him. Creative energy combined with a pounding wrath and injured pride had buzzed and hummed all through his body, making his heart race and his hand shake as he wrote and played, wrote and played, and his normally untidy script had quickly deteriorated to nothing but red scrawls across the page. But it was there, all there, after all these years. Complete.

He would _so_ have liked to hear it performed.

What a foolish thought. That would never happen now, nor would it have even if he weren't going to dispose of himself. No one would want to hear that music played. It was too much, too…why, look at what it had done to Christine. It had made her come near to him, that day after he'd kidnapped her out of her dressing room and after his disgraceful and atrocious explosion of fury when the mask came off, and tell him, _him_ , that he was the most sublime man in the world! That memory both wounded and succoured him. And she'd said it after he'd raged at her and knocked her about, dragged her by the hair and made her rake his face with her nails as she screamed in revulsion! Now that he realised the full horror of his actions toward Christine, he knew that she could not have been telling the truth about his supposed sublimity, but that hellish music had made her say it…Oh, if it were only true! But it was not. It could not be.

What a true monster he'd been during those moments, and this second time he'd abducted her as well. There was no other word for it. Utterly out of his mind with anger and jealousy, he had raged at her then too, for hours and hours till they were both exhausted and Christine was so desperate she tried to kill herself by slamming her head against a wall repeatedly. Then Erik had tied her to a chair, so that there were bruises on her wrists when he finally let her go. He'd driven her to the same breaking point that he inhabited, in fact. He knew this because when he explained to her exactly what his torture chamber was doing to the two men trapped in it, his meek little ingénue had flown at him in fury and attacked him with her fists, a butterfly trying futilely to fight a cobra. In the days when he was the most skilled and the most feared assassin in the Orient, no one would have dreamed of doing such a thing! And yet here was a feeble woman, beating on his chest and tearing at his face, of her own accord this time. He'd lashed out automatically and grabbed her by the throat, then shoved her away from him, and she'd lost her balance and gone over backward. She had hit her already wounded head on the corner of a dresser and fell unconscious to the floor, leaving him to drag her limp body out of the room and away from the screams of her paramour behind the scorching hot glass panels of the chamber. Her boy, and the Persian. His only friend, and yet Erik had been more than willing to sacrifice the man and accept his death as collateral damage if it only meant he could have Christine. He shuddered at the memory of just how far gone he'd been by then.

Erik picked up the score, and held it over the fireplace for a moment. Then he blinked, realizing belatedly that there was no fire. He hadn't lit one for days… inconvenient. Now he would have to start a fire in order to destroy _Don Juan_ … where were the matches?

But he could not quite make himself follow through. His arm quivered, but refused to perform the final actions. He lowered the score, and stood staring blankly at the cold fireplace, vaguely annoyed that he could not send his masterpiece into a dramatic fiery doom. Ah well. He was going to take it with him into the grave; that would be sufficient. No one would ever find it down here anyway. It would do no further harm, and neither would its creator. He turned, and headed for his bedroom.

As he crossed the threshold, he found himself suddenly thinking of interesting places he had not yet visited, books he hadn't gotten round to reading, music he would have liked to have heard once more. But it was too late for that. Hadn't he already done more than enough? Erik must do _this_ now. Why did his brain have to be so contrary? He'd wished for death any number of times, and now that it was at hand, he was thinking of other things, things that he would have to go on living in order to do. Well, the hell with that. Angrily he shook his head from side to side to clear it, then went down on one knee, threw open the lid of the large chest at the foot of the coffin which he slept in, and reached resolutely for the small wooden box tucked away in one corner, which contained a number of small vials. His long-fingered demon's hand hovered over the collection. This one, yes. Totally unknown in Europe, but amazingly effective. It would result in a painless exit. Over the years he had made quite a lot of people think that he was something supernatural, but that was merely another of the master magician's illusions. Spirit, angel, ghost he was not, but in reality, mortal. He would have about fifteen minutes. Plenty of time to arrange himself in the coffin with his score. He picked it up, and took out the stopper.

O-O-O

She had surely passed the lake by now. No sense going that way, the boat would not have been there. It was still against the quay on the other side where Erik had brought it after he kidnapped her this second time. She thought she must now be nearly there, going through the tunnels that skirted around the edge of the lake. Erik had built them in case someone happened to be on the lake and he could not use the boat. The lantern cast bizarre shadows on the walls, and it was as though she were caught in a nightmare that had become reality. Christine moaned with fright. She was trapped in an endless maze of darkness. She would never find Erik in time, and no one would ever find her. Lost, lost…

 _What was that?_ Just the opening to another tunnel. Don't go down that one, there was a trap there! Turn here, then here…God, the ache in her side, the horrible weight of the trailing wedding dress dragging at her… Its train caught suddenly, yanking her backward, and she gasped violently, her heart in her throat and choking her. Had _something_ reached out to grab her? She whirled, lifting the lantern up high.

Nothing. Just the empty tunnel reaching back behind her, till it faded back into blackness beyond the circle of lantern light. She heard her own terrified breaths in her ears, as they echoed off the walls.

Dripping water in the distance. The lake…behind her now. A faint echo from above, then oppressive silence all around.

 _Erik!_ What on earth was she thinking, wasting time being afraid of the dark when he was in such peril? He'd always told her that she had nothing to fear down here, because _he_ was the most dangerous thing anyone could meet in this labyrinth and he would never harm her…but now it was he who threatened his own life!

She was close now, and had caught her breath somewhat. Would he hear her this time? She tilted her head back, and screamed desperately.

O-O-O

 _"Erik! Erik!"_

Startled, Erik jerked and dropped the vial. It smashed on the floor, its contents spilling out irretrievably. "Damn it!"

 _"Erik!"_

Christine's voice! He clapped his hands over his ears. Oh God! Why was he hallucinating like this, why must he hear her voice again in this fashion? Was it the torments of Hell reaching greedily out for him, thrilled that Erik was finally within their grasp? For just a moment he faltered in his intentions, a primitive dread of the direful punishments he'd been taught to believe in as a boy seizing him. His heart seemed to stop, paralyzed by a child's unthinking fear.

But no. He had promised he would do this. He must not allow Christine to live her life in terror of him. He deserved Hell, and it was his own fault that he was headed there. There were plenty of other vials still in the little felt-lined box. The best of them had gone, but that one, that one there, it would work. Not quite as easy a death, but not too awful. The phantom Christine's voice had ceased. He reached tremblingly for the poison.

 _"Erik! Erik! Please!"_

"No!" he groaned, dropping the box and falling to both knees once more, hands pressed to his ears again in a vain attempt to protect himself. "No, _please_!"

"Erik!"

But it went on, beseeching him, slicing through him like a knife, driving him fully and entirely mad.

"Erik! Don't, please, I'm coming!"

Forgetting about the desperate need to do away with himself, he leaped up, frantic for some escape from this torture. Hands still futilely over his ears and a grimace of pain on his monster's face, he staggered unseeingly about his bedroom, collided with the armoire, and then half-fell through the doorway and reeled through his house, totally unaware of his surroundings as he went, uncharacteristically stumbling into furniture and knocking things over, wild to end the horror. The crashes of falling tables and knick-knacks seemed all part of this, their cacophony echoing through his fracturing brain as demons jeered at him and beckoned dangerously. Sharp claws raked at him and sinister laughs rang out, and he knew there was no hope. His shoulder hit a bookshelf, which rocked precipitously, books and scores cascading down, their pages falling out. Glass shattered. The fire irons clanged onto the hearthstones, and he tripped over them and almost went sprawling on the floor.

"Erik! Erik, I'm almost there! Wait, oh _please_ wait!"

All the fiends of Hell seemed bent on attacking him, and he cried out in his suffering, his head splitting, his heart tearing in two. He felt his mind finally breaking, a long ominous crack yawning wide before him. He would fall through it in another few moments, and be utterly lost.

"Erik, Erik, Erik!"

He slammed into the piano and fell hard, hitting his elbow so that a shaft of fire radiated up his arm. There had been piles of scores on it, and at the jolt they exploded upward in a white and scarlet cloud and fluttered down all around him in a shower of loose sheets. Cowering on the floor and surrounded by the disordered pieces of his music, he shuddered in agony. "Please…" he moaned again, begging for a mercy that would never come. Too late, too late for that!

The door banged open, frightening him badly, and a nightmarish vision stood there, filthy and torn, its hair straggling and its eyes fierce.

 _"Erik!"_

O-O-O O-O-O


	4. Chapter 4

Here we go... hope everyone finds this chapter both realistic and enjoyable to read.

 _Chapter 4. April 1887. The day after Erik abducted Christine (continued)._

She was in time, and he was not dead! Look there, he moved and breathed, and his familiar yellow eyes were looking at her! Christine flung herself at her maestro, kneeled beside him, and seized both his hands in hers, dragging them down from where he'd had them pressed tightly to the sides of his head. He was blinking at her, apparently speechless, his jaw slack. She didn't think she'd ever seen him look quite so shocked.

His skin was cold, but his fingers jerked spasmodically in her grasp. There was awareness in his eyes, a pulse beat in his neck. He was alive.

"Erik! Oh, I'm so glad, I was so _frightened_ , I thought I might not be in time! But I am, it's all right, you're all right!"

He said nothing, but merely went on staring at her. He looked as though he were incapable of doing anything else just at present. Christine squeezed his fingers tightly and said urgently, "Erik, it's me. I'm _here_."

He made a small strangled noise, licked his thin lips, and then finally spoke, in an uncharacteristically raspy voice. "So it has finally happened."

"What has?"

"Erik has gone completely mad."

Now it was her turn to blink at him. "What?"

He groaned painfully, and turned his head miserably away from her. "You are not real. Go away and stop torturing Erik."

She was taken aback, but then shook his arm. "No, Erik, no, I'm really here. I came back. I promise, I am real."

"No, Christine is not real," he said despairingly. "You can not be. Go away."

"No, I won't!" she snapped. "And…and I'll prove it to you that I'm real!" She let go of his arm, grabbed his chin and forcibly turned his head, and kissed him.

He jerked reflexively away, but she held on. It was like the first time, and not like it. This time Raoul was not a factor, and she was not doing it with part of her brain caught up with the need to save his life – and that of all the other people in the Opera House. She was feeling pity for Erik and frantic joy that he was alive, not impotent hatred and burning resentment at his forcing of her hand. He was crumpled on the floor in front of her, shattered, beaten, not towering above her laughing like a demon and glorying in her helpless capitulation.

But that same frenetic heat leaped from him to her, or perhaps from her to him. Just as before, she could not tell and did not care. The same strange, warm tingle started in her lips, and spread swiftly to the rest of her body. She felt the same unanticipated desire to press her whole self against him, and the same inexplicable reluctance to stop kissing him. The misshapen feel of his upper lip had not mattered before, and neither had the chill of his hands, as they might have been expected to; and they did not deter her now. But this time they were something to rejoice in, not just be indifferent to. They meant _Erik_ , and he was here, and alive. She had not been too late.

As he had done before, Erik had frozen in place, unable to move or to kiss her back at first. And as before, his mouth slowly, gradually relaxed under hers, and eventually began to respond. Tentatively and clumsily, but that was to be expected with poor Erik, who had never done this before tonight, and his fearful, uncertain return of her affection was just as heart wrenching as it had been the first time. And once again it became unimaginable to do anything that might hurt him any more.

Finally he drew away, only to stare at her once more, astonishment and confusion on his twisted features. With an incoherent cry she threw herself against him, sobbing in relief at feeling him solid and real against her. As they had before when she embraced him, his arms hovered about her for an instant, not sure what to do with this unfamiliar sensation. Then they came around her back, hard and nearly bruising in their fervour. Being held by Erik's long thin arms was…different from when Raoul had hugged her.

He pressed his face hard against her hair and shook like a leaf. It was only when she finally stopped weeping and raised her head to look at him that she realised he'd been crying as well. Tears streaked his hideous face, and he was struggling for breath. She hunted automatically for a handkerchief, but did not find any; she'd never thought to put one in the pocket of the wedding dress. Erik slapped feebly at his own pockets until he came across one, and, chivalrously, handed it to her first. She mopped her cheeks, then handed the square of fabric back to him, and looked down as he blew his nose, not sure if he would want her to see whatever difference there might be between the way a normal man might have performed such a basic task, and the way poor Erik was forced to.

When she felt his hand on her cheek, she looked up again, and nearly quailed before the depth of emotion in his eyes. Crumpling the handkerchief in one hand, he traced her features over and over again with the other, as if he still wasn't sure she was real. She closed her eyes and inclined her head toward his hand, thrilled to feel its characteristic cold touch. He was alive.

She heard him draw a deep, rattling breath, and opened her eyes automatically. He had ceased looking at her, and was sitting there with his head hanging. Christine reached out to him again, and put her hand on his arm – and blinked. Her hand was resting on the thin fabric of a shirt sleeve, not the wool of a coat. Why was he in his shirt-sleeves? He'd had a coat on when she left. She looked him up and down, and thought how strange it was to see him like this. He seemed smaller, somehow, and much more…human. A man. Then, over his shoulder, she saw the scattered pages of music on the floor. She'd momentarily registered it as she flew to him, but then forgotten it.

Why, when she entered the room, had he been crouched grimacing on the floor, half under the piano? Its bench lay on its side, in amongst the piles of paper, the musical staves red against the white of the pages. She turned her head from side to side, looking at the room. The place was a shambles, utterly unlike what it had been when she left a little while earlier. Tables and chairs overturned, books and scores lying in heaps, shattered porcelain from a figurine, rugs in disarray. There had been a cut-glass water pitcher on one small side table; the table was upside down and there were shards of glass everywhere, glinting in the Oriental carpet that was in that spot, and the painted tray the pitcher had been on was lying upside down and dented a little way away. Many of his small knick-knacks were in a thousand pieces. The clock and most of the other ornaments that had been on the mantel were now strewn on the hearth, and the fire irons were knocked over. A lampshade was resting a few feet away from her, a jagged crack in its pretty stained glass. And his music thrown all over the floor. All this was very unlike her fastidious Erik.

"Erik…were you trying to kill yourself with disorder?" She made a sound which was half a laugh and half a sob.

"No!" he retorted, clearly offended. "Erik went completely mad when he heard Christine, and upset nearly his entire house trying to escape the sound of her voice."

"Why?"

"Because Erik thought he was finally losing his mind and about to fall into Hell both."

He was still speaking of himself in the third person. That was his habit when feeling overwrought or especially cynical, for some reason, but he was worse than usual just now. Usually he vacillated between using the first and the third person, sometimes even within the same sentence, but he sounded even more unhinged than he had before and it was worrying her. He went on, "So he dropped his poison and the glass shattered, and then he did not have time to take another one before Christine called to him again and he destroyed his house trying to get away from the sound."

Her mouth fell open. "You were going to _take poison_?" The rest of his words belatedly caught up with her, and she abruptly forgot about grammar and gasped, "And – wait, you were already holding it when you heard me? My God, Erik!"

"Erik had the stopper out, Christine. Ten more seconds, and you would have been rid of Erik forever."

"Don't you talk like that!" she cried. "Don't! Oh…you were that close! I didn't know you had _poison_ here too!"

"Yes. Erik knows many ways of dealing death. He is an expert at it. He had a store of poisons which he brought back with him from the Orient. One never knows when such things may come in handy, and it is helpful to have – "

"You mean you have _more_?!" Furious, Christine set her jaw, glared, and demanded shrilly, "Where are they?"

Erik recoiled visibly from her demeanour, and said tentatively, "In…in Erik's bedroom, in a little wood box…"

She leapt clumsily to her feet, tripping over the wretched dress again, and dashed into the hallway and into his bedroom. Ignoring the mess that was in that room too, she glanced hastily around, saw the wooden box with its spare poisons still tucked snugly inside, and bent to snatch it up. Back she raced to the parlour, where Erik was sitting with his mouth open, looking at her as though he'd never seen anything quite like her before. She fumbled with the little vials, her sweaty fingers slipping on them, got a few out, and dashed them violently into the empty fireplace. The sound of shattering glass filled the underground house.

Erik, who had stretched out a hand impotently when she drew back her arm, exclaimed, "Christine!"

She ignored him, panting with anger and revulsion, and flung another handful to their doom.

"Christine, stop that!" He struggled upright, hissing with pain, and reached out for her. Hastily she hurled the last of them away, and, raising both arms, dashed the box to the floor. Glass flew up in a sparkling cloud and then descended into the ashes, and she stamped on the box so that its lid came off.

"Christine!" He had seized her arm, but too late.

"What?" she snapped, putting her other fist on her hip and scowling. He shook her, looking daggers at her right back.

"What is the matter with you? Those were valuable! Do you realise how difficult it will be to get any of them here in France?"

"I don't care!" she retorted, stamping her foot. "I don't care! I'm not going to have you committing suicide, and I'm not going to have you using those on anybody else, and I'm not going to have you frightening me like that anymore, and…and... and that's all there is to it! And you are, are…just awful. How _could_ you?"

Christine covered her face with her free hand. She considered crying, but then realised that she had spent most of the last twenty-four hours crying and she was sick of it. With the poisons now gone, her headache reasserted itself; she hadn't felt it for a few minutes. Her stomach churned, and she started to sit down again, too tired and ill to remain standing, but Erik pulled her back up and said reprovingly, "Do not sit down on the floor, Christine, when there is a couch right here. You are very foolish tonight."

"I'm not foolish," she said petulantly, jerking her head to one side and ignoring his offer of the couch. "I'm _not_. _You_ are horrid."

"Yes, Erik is. Christine should not have stopped him from killing himself and saving the world a great deal of trouble."

"I didn't – " A sob threatened again, and she fought it back. When she realised he was waiting for her to continue, she said thickly, "I didn't want…I couldn't bear…" Feeling like an incoherent idiot, she looked up at him, and saw that there was a thin line of blood trickling down one of his sunken cheeks.

"Oh, Erik! You're bleeding!"

He put a hand to his face, took it away and glanced at it, and said dismissively, "A bit of glass must have flown up. Not to worry, Christine, Erik is all over bruises anyway from his ridiculous rampage through his house." He raised one arm and gazed balefully at the large rent in the elbow of his shirt sleeve. "Erik was certainly far more foolish than Christine." He turned slightly, looking around at the disaster area which had been his parlour, and she saw that he had split one shoulder seam of his waistcoat. Then he turned back to her, and added, shrugging, "This little cut does not matter a bit – and it will hardly make him any more ugly."

"I'm – sorry," she whispered, not exactly sure what she was apologizing for but doing it anyway. She raised her own hand and touched the cut experimentally; he was right, it was nothing. But then he suddenly covered her hand with his, holding it pressed against his face, and his eyes were alight with emotion. Something like a shiver ran down her arm and grew from there, warming and spreading out till her body felt as though it were glowing just as much as his eyes were. Deliberately not thinking about what she was doing, she pulled his head down and shoved her mouth to his again.

It was easier to not be thinking. He sighed into her mouth. His lips opened, very slightly, against hers. Her limbs felt weak – was it with fatigue? – and a strange languor stole over her, tantalizing her with an enthralling promise of…what? With the previous kisses, she had been unequivocally in control, leading him along with her experience of kissing; even though she had only ever kissed Raoul, she certainly had more knowledge of the business than Erik. But he was the tiniest bit bolder now, just a tiny bit, and she felt…excited. How odd. Their hands slid apart. Hers went up around his neck, and his cupped her cheek ever so lightly, like the caress of a butterfly. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. His other hand stole cautiously onto her waist, and she wondered whether he would wrap his arm around her, but he did not seem to have the daring to do so, and she grew impatient. That urge to touch more of him was back, but now she could give in to it. She leaned heavily against him, till their bodies pressed together from chest to knees. And then he did hold her more tightly. Time stopped, briefly.

But one can not go without breath forever, even with highly trained lungs, and eventually their lips parted. They stayed leaning against each other, eyes shut, their mouths only millimetres apart, both of them breathing hard. Finally Erik whispered, "You're real. You came back…to _me_." Then she felt a deep, subterranean quiver run through him. He drew away a bit, peeling their bodies apart, and it was as if he were shrinking abruptly back into himself, after an impulsive and glorious burst out of his shell.

Christine opened her eyes. Braver now, she raised them to his again. They were still burning, so brightly that his deformity faded into the background, because all that mattered was the way he was looking at her, and that he kept on doing so. "I couldn't not come back," she whispered back. She wanted to be touching him still, and so she wrapped her hand around his. He started to raise them – perhaps to kiss her hand? – but suddenly frowned, and turned her hand over, looking at the swollen knuckles and broken nails.

"Oh," she said, embarrassed. "I – I fought Raoul off."

His expression darkened drastically, and she realised what he must be thinking.

"No, no," she continued hurriedly. "He didn't – he wasn't – not that. He only wanted to keep me from going back; he thought I had gone temporarily mad. I…he…I think he was only trying to do what he thought was right."

"No doubt," said Erik disdainfully. "The boy can, at least, be trusted for that. I can not say I fault him for wanting to keep you as far away from me as he could. I gave you to him because I knew he would keep you safe."

Relieved at his return to reasonably sensible speech, Christine put her hand hesitantly on his cheek, and saw the fine tremor that ran through him at her touch. "I don't want to be far away from you," she breathed.

She glimpsed the sudden light flare again in his golden eyes, and it swiftly became too intense for her to bear. She glanced down, and said, stammering horribly and feeling ridiculous, "I-I came b-back because I realised that – and because-because I was stricken with such horror at the thought of what you were g-going t-to do, that I thought I would die of it. I got away from Raoul as soon as I could, and I…I ran back."

"Where is he now?" Erik questioned, his voice suddenly alert.

"Don't worry," said Christine, hiccupping, "He's on the other side of the door to the Rue Scribe. I locked it; he'll never get through. We don't have to fear any sudden appearances from him." The sheer bizarreness of the situation silenced her then; a few days ago, she could easily have had the exact same conversation with Raoul, about Erik.

Erik seemed not to notice her confusion, but instead he drew her a few steps away to sit on the couch. It was a relief to do so, and she sighed vaguely as he raised one hand to twine his fingers in her disordered hair. He gazed at it, watching his long bones entangled with her curls. Both of them were quiet, and Christine cast about mentally for something to say. Everything she could think of seemed unbearably stupid.

Finally Erik murmured, "What does your return mean, Christine?"

Startled, she said, "It means I want – " She stopped, fearing to speak the words, and tried to use a euphemism instead. "It – it means I've made up my mind."

O-O-O O-O-O


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you again to all those who are reading... I hope you like this chapter.

 _Chapter 5. April 1887. The day after Erik abducted Christine (concluded)._

He looked at her then, and she saw that he would not be satisfied with that. As his reason was returning, so was his aura of command. She took her courage in both hands and forced the words out.

"It means I want…you." She heard him inhale sharply. Embarrassed, she tried to play down the tremendous significance of her meaning by adding awkwardly, "If – if you still want me, that is." One glance back at Erik and she saw how ludicrous a thing that had been to say.

For a long moment they had not spoken, merely held each other's gaze, and then he had lifted her battered hands up and laid his disfigured cheek against them. Relieved that she would apparently not have to say anything else, she closed her eyes.

Eventually she had had to open them, however, because Erik groaned and stirred, and she looked at him. He appeared…well, he appeared tired, actually. She had not seen him look so before. Always, he seemed to have boundless strength for whatever he needed. Tonight had nearly done them both in, she thought.

"Christine," he said hoarsely, "You should…sleep. How long has it been since you could?" He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner; the small one he had knocked over had stopped. "Oh, Christ. It is five in the morning. You have not slept for nearly two days."

"Don't remind me," she said, the mention of fatigue making her yawn hugely. "S-sorry." She tried to hide it with her hand, just as another nearly dislocated her jaw. It hurt to keep her eyes open; even her teeth ached. "I – I – ohhhhh."

"You must get some rest," said Erik, rising off the couch. He staggered as he did so, and she reached out a hand to him in alarm.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," he answered immediately, but it sounded distinctly automatic and she found she did not believe him.

"Erik…when was the last time _you_ slept?"

"That does not matter."

"It matters to me," she insisted doggedly. "You didn't sleep at all either in the last day, did you?"

He turned to face her, and his eyes were uncharacteristically soft. "Christine cares about Erik's health," he said mistily. "What a good, sweet girl you are."

If he kept talking like that, he was going to get on her nerves. She wondered vaguely how long it would take her to break him of that speech habit. "Of – of – of course I care," she said, yawning some more. "I – you – don't talk like – that." She stood up herself, swaying, and he caught her by the arms.

"Christine, go to bed."

"All right." She had never wanted to obey one of his commands more. "Will you as well?"

"Yes."

Satisfied, Christine started to take a step away, but then stopped short. "But – wait! I just thought of something!"

"What is it, Christine?" said Erik, rather testily.

"You don't have a bed to sleep in!" In her current state, this seemed a dreadful thing and she looked up at him worriedly. Erik, however, simply scowled forbiddingly down at her like a gargoyle. "Christine, Erik shall sleep in his coffin as usual. It is where he belongs, and good enough for him too after what he has put you through this night."

"Oh, please don't! I don't want you sleeping there anymore!"

"Erik has slept there for years."

"Well, you must stop, now, today! It's morbid, and revolting, and it must be bad for your health."

"Christine, _go_ to _bed_. _Now._ " He turned resolutely, stepped over her bedraggled train and began propelling both of them in the direction of the parlour door. Perturbed, she attempted to dig in her heels, to no avail.

"And – and you won't get restful sleep in there, I'm sure! You need rest as much as I do, maybe more."

"I will be fine, Christine! Now do as I say!"

"You sleep in the bed, you need it more than I do. I'll sleep on the couch."

"Absolutely not. That is your bed, and I would not take it from you. How ungentlemanly."

"You weren't any too concerned about being a gentleman just a few hours ago – "

"A low blow, woman!"

"And it's _not_ my bed, it's yours really – "

Squabbling, they headed for the hallway and their separate bedrooms. At the door to the Louis Philippe bedroom, Christine flung out her arms to block Erik's intended path away from it and her. Smirking wickedly, she deployed her surest weapon.

"I can't get undressed by myself."

This was perfectly true. Erik, in his ignorance as to the practicalities of ladies' attire, had acquired a wedding dress for her which was everything that the most formal of bridal raiment should be. The dress was, or rather, had been, a vision of loveliness; fashioned out of glimmering white satin, the skirt elegantly draped and swagged with that satin and with silk organza, and a long train which flowed out behind her like a peacock's tail.

And a high-necked, long sleeved bodice which fitted like a suit of armour and laced up the back with dozens of pairs of tiny eyelets, thus making it completely impossible for its wearer to get in or out of it unassisted. When Erik had ordered her to put it on, Christine had banged her bedroom door shut and changed into the gown on her own, as far as she could. When the skirt was on her and the bodice was laid out on the bed, she deliberately sat down and waited, tapping one foot in rage. And when he bellowed a command to hurry up, she had taken a vengeful joy in jerking open her door to inform him that if he wanted her to wear it, he would have to be the one to dress her – and in his obvious discomfort at seeing her in her corset cover. Hurling the lacing ribbon and needles furiously at him, she'd watched him catch them reflexively out of the air and then look at them in total confusion as to what he was supposed to do with them. After a few words of sarcastic explanation, she'd turned her back on him. Then she had stood fuming as he struggled with the unfamiliar task and the miniscule silk-bound eyelets, growling in nervous frustration as he periodically missed one and thereby twisted the whole bodice out of shape. And she'd laughed scornfully when he dropped a needle and, swearing furiously, had to hunt for it through the multiple folds of the skirt. There had been no shortage at all, in fact, of sharp words exchanged on both sides, a thoroughly miserable experience for both of them, and after Erik was done threading the eyelets, he'd jerked so hard on the ribbon as he tried to close up the bodice that she'd almost fallen over backward on him.

Altogether, it had taken him over half an hour to get her into that dress. The finished product had been an utter mess, but finish he had, after a fashion at least. When he'd finally knotted the ribbon at the bottom of the bodice and slammed his way out of her room, she'd craned her head over her shoulder to look in the mirror, and reflected that this was a fair representation of what their marriage would be, should he go through with his stated intention to force her into such a thing. The whole affair did not fit properly at all, fastened like this, and the twisted fabric was binding her arms so that she could not raise them without pain.

But she was technically _in_ the dress, which meant that now he would have to undo his haphazard lacing job or she would be sleeping in it. The look of consternation on his face as he realised what she meant by her words was so comical she nearly laughed out loud.

"Christine, Erik can not go into your room and – and disrobe you!"

"You managed to dress me!" She was enjoying getting a little of her own back, after his treatment of her earlier, and he looked _so_ embarrassed. "Would you rather I slept in this dress, as it is now?" Pointedly she spread her arms, displaying the mud and damp and general awfulness of the current condition of her attire. The gown was utterly ruined, filthy and ripped in multiple places, and long since past being anything resembling white.

He glanced about, as though there might be an answer for his predicament somewhere farther down the hallway. "Christine, I would not compromise you…"

She laughed sharply. "Then you might have thought of that before you dressed me in this! How were you thinking you were going to – " She stopped dead. He had, of course, been thinking that he would be taking it off her as a bridegroom.

A thoroughly uncomfortable silence reigned for a few moments, each of them looking everywhere but at the other, and then Christine said definitively, "I am exhausted and ill and I don't want to sleep in this dress. So you come in here and help me." A quiver of apprehension at the immodesty of this troubled her, and she eased her conscience by hastily adding, "We are going to be married anyway, so it's all right." She swung the door open, and repeated, "Come _in_."

Showing a meekness that was very un-Erik like, he finally did as she ordered, and once they were in the room, she turned her back to him expectantly. The idea of getting undressed and being finally in bed was very attractive indeed. But she could feel the edginess coming off him in waves, and hoped she wasn't going to have to turn round and talk him into this all over again. Then she felt his hesitant hands on the tail of her bodice, and a tugging at the laces.

"Damn."

"What's wrong?"

"I can not undo this," he said shortly. "Erik did such a bad job of knotting it that after getting wet it is stuck fast."

"Oh. I have embroidery scissors in that drawer – " She pointed.

"Don't bother," he said, somewhat distantly. "I shall just use a knife."

There was a snicking noise while she was still processing his comment, and a sudden draft of air on her upper back, above her chemise. The constricting bodice had sprung loose all at once, not gradually as it would have if he'd unlaced the ribbon. Christine panicked suddenly, her mind leaping back to when she'd feared he would violate her, and she cried out unthinkingly and whirled to face him.

But he was quite obviously in no condition to do anything to anyone. Undressing her even to this extent appeared to have been the final nail in his proverbial coffin, because he had dropped the pocket-knife and was paler than ever and swaying like a drunkard. Sweat beaded on his distorted brow, and his head was lolling, his eyes shutting. They snapped open momentarily, a shocking flash of gold in his demon's face, and then rolled abruptly back in his head, which was a truly alarming sight given his aspect. She grabbed for him, frightened now for his safety instead of her own, the fast switches between emotions making her feel sick as well.

It was not a terribly big room and they were standing not too far from the bed; she managed to direct his fall so that he ended up more or less on it. Frantically she felt for his pulse, and found it beating steadily. His skin was cold, but no more than normal for him. A faint, then, nothing more. Very, very unlike Erik…but then, she reasoned, he was exhausted too and he'd had a thoroughly dreadful night. And here she'd been suspecting him of diabolical intentions again, when he was not going to do anything of the sort. She felt quite guilty. And ill at ease too; he had never been so…well, so vulnerable in front of her. Always he was in control, the one who was ruling the situation and everything in it, and now here he lay, stretched out helplessly before her – and looking more human than Christine had ever yet seen him look.

She smoothed his tangled hair away from his brow, and then was deeply shocked when his lips suddenly curved upward for the briefest of instants, causing her to freeze still. After close to a minute, she got hold of herself and did it again. Again he smiled, only fleetingly, and crookedly due to the deformation of his mouth…but still, it was definitely a smile. The lines on his face smoothed somewhat, and he looked…calmer.

Compassion for him twisted her heart. Poor Erik. Had anyone else ever stroked his hideous head to ease him while he slept? Or was she the only one who had ever bothered to do so, and therefore the only one to see that furtive smile cross his misshapen lips? His lips, which she had kissed…That kiss which had moved him so.

She bent swiftly and did it again, just a light brush of the mouth before she had time to think about it. But he sighed softly, and his breathing took on more the appearance of sleep than of a faint. Then she took a handkerchief from the drawer in the nightstand and wiped his face, and undid his tie so she could loosen his collar. But when she did so, she drew back, for there was a thin line of a scar running across the front of his throat. For a mad instant she thought he might have tried to kill himself at some recent time, but no; the scar was very old, white against his pale skin. She would ask him about it later. After a moment's further thought, and with several timorous glances to see whether he were waking up, she lifted his feet onto the bed, removed his shoes and laid them neatly on the floor.

One of his stockings had a small hole in the heel. Christine felt rather motherly, looking at it, and decided that once they were married she would see to it that his things were mended before he needed to wear them again. Picking up the folded quilt at the foot of the bed, she draped it over him.

But…now what? He was in the bed, and appeared highly unlikely to get out of it anytime soon. That would mean that she would have to sleep beside him, when they were not yet married, or sleep elsewhere. The chaise longue? She had slept there before, the very first night he brought her down here, but she had not been nearly so tired then. A wave of disorienting fatigue hit her, so hard that it nearly made her retch. She turned away from the bed and Erik both and took several deep breaths, her hands on her midsection, till her stomach calmed back down. Everything hurt; the soles of her feet ached, and her eyeballs felt like small burning orbs in her face.

She wanted to be out of this horrible dress, at least. She went to the armoire and got out a nightgown, and went to the bathroom to change, lest he wake up and see her in the middle of the process. Stripping off all the heavy layers, as well as her wet shoes and stockings, felt indescribably wonderful, and she nearly crooned with delight as she slipped the light night-dress over her head. She brushed her hair mechanically and stumbled back into the bedroom, eyeing the chaise longue. It was horizontal; it would do. Oh, it seemed years since she had last slept. The events of the time since she was kidnapped from Faust's final act swam through her throbbing head in a wave of images, some clear, some hazy. The horrendous descent underground, pulled along mercilessly by an explosively angry and wildly reckless Erik who clearly no longer felt he had anything to lose. The hours she'd spent tied to a chair after she tried to dash her brains out on the wall, thinking that better that than submission. Raoul's crazed shouts from the other side of the wall, and, much later, the pitiful moans he made as his condition deteriorated. The Persian unconscious on the couch, his elegant evening suit ruined by sweat and lake water. Erik on his knees begging her to love him…Erik on his knees sobbing.

It occurred to her, suddenly and irrationally, that Erik might still try to kill himself. His despair had been so great; she shuddered as she remembered him weeping bitterly into the hem of her gown. Such a sorrow would not just obligingly disappear in the space of an hour, surely? Badly weakened by fatigue and her head injury, her mind could not see the obvious; that he had no reason anymore to be sorrowful or despairing now that she had returned to him. Frantic with the desire to keep him safe, she slipped under the bedcovers and took hold of his arm, hovering over him and thinking woozily that he had no one but her to comfort him.

And…nothing happened. Erik slept on. God did not strike her dead. Gradually her panic subsided, and she took a vague stock of her situation. She was under the blankets; Erik was on top of them. That was better than nothing, wasn't it? And... and they were going to be married, they were going to be married, it would be all right if they slept chastely beside each other for one night just before their wedding…

Repeating that justification to herself to take her mind off their compromising situation, Christine settled down onto her side. Then, impulsively, she nestled close to Erik and laid her cheek on his shoulder. Now, if he moved, she would feel it and wake, and be able to stop him. She raised her eyes to see his face, utterly unmistakable as anyone else's, and thought of how glad she was that he was here with her, merely asleep and not dead. She gave a shudder. How horrible that would have been, and he had been seconds away from taking that poison…

But his arm was reassuringly solid and real under her hand, and she took a firmer grasp on it and pressed herself against him, drifting off almost immediately.

O-O-O O-O-O


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6. April 1887. Second day after Erik abducted Christine._

Christine woke some time later, and had a moment of complete confusion as she tried to remember why there was another person in her bed. Then everything came rushing back, and she simply lay there, too overwhelmed to do anything else.

Erik's head had turned toward her as he slept, and she gazed at him with curiosity. He looked different when he was asleep. Oh, his face was still hideously deformed, as nothing could change that, but now he appeared much more relaxed, without the glowering antagonism against what sometimes seemed to be the entire world. Some of the lines on his skin had smoothed out a little, and his mouth was slack, not sneering or twisted with fury or misery. He was breathing deeply and evenly, and she hoped that that meant he was getting restful sleep. The fact that he would not admit to how long it had been since he last slept bothered her.

And how long since he ate anything? He had always refused to do so in front of her, and their odd relationship was such that she was not used to worrying over whether he took any food, or rest for that matter. But…look how thin he was. That could not be a healthy state for any human being, even her indomitable Erik. Even once she knew he was no longer an angel, he had still seemed somewhat superhuman, or, she admitted to herself, demonic. He had never been so vulnerable before her as he had been after she came back here. Seeing him faint into bed, and sleep so soundly when she was right there, had opened a good many cracks in his supernatural aura, and she did not think they were repairable. She would no longer view him as she had once done.

He also, she realised, needed a clean shirt. His collar was lying open, as she had undone it before going to sleep, and she could see a faint ring around the inside of it. How…commonplace. No ghost had such things happen. His chest rose and fell with slow regularity, one hand draped over it. Two of his fingernails were broken, she noticed.

He was a man. Not a ghost, not a demon, not an angel. Just a superbly talented and intelligent man, and one with whom she was currently sharing a bed; one to whom she would be married in what was likely to be only a few hours. This seemed so surreal that it did not frighten her. It was as though the facts of the situation had no connection to her, so why be afraid of them? Surely it was not Christine Daae who had slept next to a man who was not yet her husband; surely it was not Christine Daae who had, in the space of a single night, stopped being engaged to one man and begun being so to an entirely different one. It could not be her who had tamed a madman with a kiss, or saved the lives of thousands in the same fashion.

Her left arm was tingling, the circulation partly cut off because it was squashed between her body and Erik's. She shifted slightly to free it, still thinking about that first kiss, and then was interrupted in her hazy musings by Erik's eyes snapping open. For a heartbeat they stared at each other, as still as deer in the wood. Then he gave a yell and shot upright, and likely would have exited the bed entirely had she not already had a good grip on his arm. She'd been sleeping that way, and had never let go. So, when he sat up he dragged her along with him, and she yanked on him and stopped his retreat.

"Don't, Erik, stop! What are you doing?!"

He pressed a hand over his heart, gasping. Worried, she pulled it away and laid her own hand there. Even though he flinched, she could still feel that his heart was racing.

"Are you all right?"

"All – right?" he panted, his yellow eyes wide as saucers. "All – _right_? What in hell do you mean by this, Christine?"

"What do _I_ mean?" she retorted. "You might better ask yourself that, as it's your fault we both ended up here!"

" _Mine_?" His expression altered immediately, from shocked to terrified. "My God, what did I do?" He grabbed her arm, his grip painful. " _What did I do?_ Did I lose my mind again? What did I do to you? Why are we here?"

Belatedly she comprehended what he was frightened of. "Erik, stop it! You didn't do anything. I asked you to help me out of my dress, remember?"

His eyes were nearly bursting out of his head. She stared hard at him, willing him to understand and calm down.

"You undid the bodice, and then you…well, I think you fainted. I guided your fall into the bed; it was right there and I didn't want you to hit the floor. I'd never have been able to move you then. And then you just…slept. You must have been exhausted?" She peered at him, her eyebrows raised, and he gave a jerky nod, and seemed faintly ashamed; of course, he would never have wanted her to see him in such a state. "And so I didn't want to wake you. And I was…I was _worried_ ," she said all in a rush. An uncomfortable thought was dawning. "I was afraid you might try to harm yourself again…but…I didn't think…"

With a sickening feeling in her stomach, she realised that he would not have had any need to attempt to do himself any further harm, now that she had returned to him. What an idiot she had been. Why had she been so frightened? She had shared a bed with him, thinking that there were extenuating circumstances…when there were not.

But it would be all right, she forced herself to remember, because they were soon going to be husband and wife. There was no question of that, not with the way Erik adored her. She had not done this with just any man; if there were some sin here, it was surely minor, and, after confession, God would forgive them once they were decently married. They would still have been faithful only to each other.

Erik inhaled hard and put his hands over his face. "Christine, if anything causes me harm, it is going to be you."

" _Me_!" she said indignantly, momentarily distracted from the impropriety of their situation. "Why?"

"Because you nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Serves you just right, then, as you nearly gave me one last night. Morning. Whatever it was." She let go of him, as he did not look to be ready to leap away anymore, and folded her arms crossly, shifting her weight on the bed so that its mattress moved a little. Erik clutched his head with both hands and gave a long groan.

"What's the matter?" Christine asked.

"It is," he said between clenched teeth, "currently a matter of debate as to who has the worse headache: me or you."

"Oh," she said, remembering her injury. Her head hadn't actually been bothering her, as her mind had been elsewhere, but now it gave a sullen sort of throb and she rubbed her temple, deliberately not looking at the corner of the room where there were surely still bloodstains on the wall. Her hands still hurt a bit as well, but not too bad.

"Are _you_ all right?" Erik asked, abandoning his pique and sounding concerned.

"More or less. I think. I don't know."

"Your forehead looks dreadful. Do you think you are in need of a physician?"

"Oh – I doubt it. I think I'll be all right after a while. I've rested some, at least. What time is it?"

"Eleven a.m., according to the clock on your nightstand."

She peered blearily at it. Erik's clocks did not look like normal ones. They showed twenty-four hours, instead of twelve, so that he could tell whether it was day or night aboveground, and she was not good at reading them. "If you say so," she said, and then added with relief, "Then there's still time to go out and get married today. I would not want to leave it any longer than necessary."

Erik went still, and then lowered his hands. His eyes were wary.

"So…you still wish to do so."

"Yes!" she said, startled. "We must!"

He sighed heavily, and leaned back against the headboard. "Christine…I will not hold you to that promise," he said quietly. "You may not have been – quite yourself last night. And I can not believe that you would be anything but miserable if you were bound to me. I can not do that to you."

Her mouth fell open. "How can you say such a thing?" she gasped. He glanced up at her, surprised. "After – after you shared a bed with me! Would you have me sin so?"

"Christine – "

"I've been telling myself it was all right because we were going to get married! Are you that much of a cad? Oh…"

"For God's sake, Christine, that was no one's fault from what you have told me!" he snapped. "Simply some unfortunate circumstances, and those were Erik's doing, not yours! And he is not such a cad as to reveal them. Go and lead your life and be happy, as I told you to last night, and no one need ever know what passed down here!"

" _I_ will know!" she cried, bursting into tears as a swell of intense emotion hit her. "Oh, how can you do this to me? I am a virtuous woman! I would never have done this with a man whom I didn't intend to marry! Oh, what would Papa say?"

"Christine, don't weep!" said Erik, looking panicky. "You are still a good girl. Nothing passed between us except a few hours of some much needed sleep, when both of us were in no condition to do anything other than…you have done nothing wrong."

"It's only not wrong if we marry," she sobbed, barely coherent. "Oh, I thought you loved me…"

"Christine, Christine, I do! And Erik _understands_ now, Christine! I see now how one shows love, that is why I told you to go! Surely you can not want to be married to Erik."

Despairing, she fell back onto the bed, curling up on her side and weeping bitterly into a pillow. In her current state, this seemed the very end of the world. She felt his hands fluttering over her, clearly unsure what to do to comfort her. He went on talking frantically. "Damn it, I want you to be happy! I was only trying to show you that that was the most important thing. I would not have you bound by a promise that makes you miserable."

"I can not be h – h – happy if I have – sinned."

"You have not. You only did the best you could under extreme circumstances, I told you."

She sat up, swiping at her cheeks, and hissed, "It is a sin if we sleep together without marrying afterward! And I _do_ want to marry you. I said so last night. Do you think me a liar? Why don't you believe me? Why would I have come back otherwise?"

"Christine…" Erik hesitated, and then, swiftly, as though he were afraid she would stop him, took her hands in his. She let him, sniffling. Her face was wet with tears and her nose was running, but he was looking at her as though she were as beautiful as a goddess. His mouth worked tremulously, and he had to start and stop several times before he could speak. When he finally did, it was only in an unsteady whisper.

"Do you…really want _Erik_ as your husband? Truly?"

She nodded stubbornly, and then remembered that he needed to hear the words, and said, "Yes."

"And you will not be unhappy with him?" A shake of her head this time.

"No."

He drew in his breath deeply, and then bent and, all in a rush, pressed several worshipful kisses to her hands. "Oh, Christine, Christine!" he whispered shakily. "I do not deserve this! You have made Erik the happiest creature on earth."

"You are not a creature," she murmured. "You are a man."

He reached out and stroked her cheek, first cautiously and then with more boldness, when she did not draw back. His hands were slightly less cold than usual, she noticed vaguely.

"You once thought me a monster."

"You behaved as one. And then…you did not anymore."

"And can you forgive Erik for his crimes?" he asked guardedly.

"A virtuous person forgives a repentant sinner, Erik."

"No one has ever forgiven me for anything before."

"Did you ever repent before?"

He looked abashed. "Well…not much."

"But now you have, and so now everything is different."

"I wish I had known that that was all I had to do," he said ruefully.

"Don't minimize it," she said reproachfully. "Perhaps…perhaps you simply were not ready till now. I am thankful that it occurred before anything really dreadful happened. God was merciful."

He said nothing to that, and she was about to continue by asking when he was going to go to confession, when her stomach suddenly rumbled loudly. She doubled up in embarrassment.

"Christine is hungry," said Erik, unnecessarily. "I should have seen to it that you ate before going to sleep. I am afraid that I have been remiss of late in restocking my larder, but there should be enough to manage some breakfast for you."

"You too," said Christine. "Why don't you go and wash and change? You'll feel better, and perhaps your headache will lessen. I will go and make us a meal."

"How sweet you are." He gazed adoringly at her, with a softer expression in his yellow eyes than she had ever seen before. Touching her hair timidly, he murmured, "Christine, you are beautiful." Then his eyes dropped lower, down the whole length of her in a way which he had not yet done this morning, and she realised anew their situation. They were sitting in a bed together, so close that their knees were nearly touching, and the bed coverings were all askew and the sheets tangled; she was in a nightgown with nothing at all underneath it, its fabric outlining her body and its hem rucked up so that her ankles and even her calves were bare before his gaze, and her hair cascading loose and wild over her shoulders; he was in his shirtsleeves, his collar undone and the pale flesh of his angel's throat exposed to her eyes, as it never had been till now, and his face boldly unmasked.

The look in his eyes was no longer soft, but had changed to something which she could not describe to herself but which compelled her inexorably nonetheless. Christine was acutely aware of her own body, her skin feeling prickly all over. She noticed the strong set of his shoulders, and the muscles that were standing out on his long thin arms, visible through the fine linen of his shirt, as he suddenly gripped her hands hard. She sensed some great, silent struggle going on deep within him, and his fingers kept tightening on hers till it hurt. Soon he would be crushing them; why did he seem desperate not to let go? She was about to give in and beg him to do so, when he abruptly wrenched himself free and whirled away, leaping out of bed.

"You should go eat something," he said, in an inexplicably harsh tone and without looking at her. Then he marched out of the room, back stiff – and Christine clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle an impromptu laugh. The Phantom's grand exits were distinctly less effective on his audience when executed in stocking feet.

The door shut behind him, and she heard his own door opening and then water running. Well, good. She hoped he had a nice soothing bath and came out in a better mood. He was so changeable sometimes! It was difficult to know which Erik one was going to have to contend with from one minute to the next.

Her stomach complained loudly again. She would put on a house dress to make their breakfast, and take a bath herself afterwards. She would not want to be wearing whatever she were going to be married in to prepare food, anyway. Determinedly Christine swung her own legs over the bed, and then her head swam, briefly but badly enough that for a moment she wasn't sure if she could get up at all. She sat still for a moment, breathing hard, and gradually the pain subsided a little. Cautiously she forced herself to stand up all the way. Food and hot coffee would do both of them a great deal of good.

Hurriedly dressing, she stopped suddenly as she saw lines of bruising circling around her arms where they met her shoulders. They must be from the wedding dress; Erik had laced it so crookedly that the sleeves had not fitted right at all, and dug into her flesh whenever she moved her arms. It had only increased her feeling of bondage, and made her a little angry even now. But the dress was ruined and she would not be wearing it to get married in anyway, or ever again for that matter. Erik had lost the opportunity to see his bride coming to him in white. She would now have to pick out another gown from the wardrobe he had provided for her, and none of them were white, it being only spring and not summer yet. Well, that seemed an adequate recompense for her injuries, she decided. There were also faint finger marks on her upper arms, because he had gripped her so tightly in his panic over waking up in bed with her, and marks from the ropes he had tied her up with to stop her from injuring her head any further; she raised her hands and saw the bruises and broken fingernails from her struggle with Raoul, in the catacombs. And her head was pounding again, too… lowering her hands again and gazing at the room without really seeing it, she thought to herself that between her self-inflicted wounds and those caused by not just one, but both the men who claimed to love her, she was hardly the perfect picture of a bride.

But none of that could be helped, nor had it decreased her stomach's demands one bit. Rubbing at her temples, Christine went to the kitchen as soon as she could, picking up Erik's discarded pocket knife from the bedroom floor as she went, and prepared what she could find, deliberately setting two places at the dining room table. There was not much available, as Erik had said, and what was there was far from being fresh. But she was so hungry she didn't care, and found herself gobbling two pieces of stale bread spread with butter while standing up and getting down dishes. Most unladylike, but there was no one to see her do it.

Erik was taking an inordinate amount of time to bathe and dress. Christine opened a can of peaches and made coffee, and then fretted that it would grow cold before it was drunk. At length she finally heard his door opening, and he came into the dining room, now respectably frock-coated. She was disappointed in his attire, however, and it must have shown on her face, because Erik said immediately, "What is wrong?"

"Nothing, I…nothing." She turned away.

"Tell me."

She could not refuse a command of his, still. Even when he spoke dispassionately his voice was irresistibly compelling.

"Oh – it is only that – well, I thought you'd be in a morning coat."

"Why?" he asked, and now there was a caustic edge to his beautiful voice. It made her own ire rise, and she said tartly, "To get married in, of course. Why else?"

"Christine, I debated at great length as to what to present myself to you in. As it happens, I do possess a coat of that type, and the appropriate accoutrements to go with it. It is brand new, in fact; never worn. I ordered it from my tailor in a fit of truly excessive foolishness and self-delusion."

He had turned sarcastic again, and as usual he was managing to make his tone more irritating than anyone else's could possibly have been. And her temper was short this morning. She flung back, "Then _why_ aren't you wearing it?"

"Because I will not go through with this farce!" he retorted. "You do not want to marry me! You can not! You are only doing so because you think you must. Well, I won't have it. I will not take advantage of you anymore. I shall never tell anyone that you slept a chaste night in the same bed with me, when you were ill, and you can go home and lead the life you should have had, before Erik interfered."

Christine set her hands on her hips. "I'm tired of arguing about this! You wanted to marry me plenty back when you thought I didn't want to, and now that I say I do, you don't want to after all? Are you just looking for things to be contrary about?"

"No!"

"Well, then, come to the table and have your breakfast. You must need something to eat." Doing so together would be a new experience for them, but she was too angry to care about his assorted eccentricities.

He remained obstinate still. "I will not. The sight would turn your stomach."

"Yes! You will!" She stamped her foot. "I've been to some trouble to prepare it, and – and maybe that will convince you that I want to marry you! And afterwards I will go change and so will you, and then we are going to be married. And that's final."

O-O-O O-O-O


	7. Chapter 7

Hello all, sorry for the delay in posting the next chapter; we were away for the weekend and I didn't bring my computer. Here you are; I hope you enjoy it.

Throughout this section of the story, there are various references to what was involved in getting married in Third Republic France of the 1880s. These may be a bit confusing to many modern readers, as they are rather more complicated from what we are used to today. But France was a very old and legalistic country and was also trying to function both as what was then considered to be "modern," and as a strongly Catholic country. According to Leroux's timeline, the second kidnapping of Christine, and Raoul and the Persian's descent into the catacombs of the Opera to rescue her, occurred sometime in March, when it would have been the season of Lent. Catholics were not really supposed to get married during Lent, but you still could if you paid a fee. Also, it was then and still is today required that you have a civil wedding in order to be legally married. Unlike in many countries today, a marriage performed by a religious official will not suffice. Devout people, therefore, must have two weddings; you both go before the relevant official to get the paperwork dealt with, and have the religious ceremony as well.

There is still one more factor to consider. Most people today are familiar with the concept of needing witnesses to make a marriage legal. In France of the 1880s, however, not just two but _four_ witnesses were required, two for the bride and two for the groom. This presents a bit of a problem for our Erik...

 _Chapter 7. April 1887. Second day after Erik abducted Christine (continued)._

He glared at her. "Fine," he snapped. "I shall come to the table and eat with you, as I am now." He gestured at his unmasked face. "And after you've seen the monster try to sit at the table and pretend to be civilised, we'll see whether you are still so adamant about marrying Erik, Christine!" He pushed rudely past her and stalked to the table. With sharp, angry movements, they both sat down. Erik did not hold Christine's chair for her. She unfolded her napkin and dropped it over her lap.

He had never eaten in front of her before today. She was not sure how much of his capitulation today was because he wanted to prove her wrong, and how much because of the real hunger he must have been feeling. And while it was not, in fact, a pleasant sight from an objective standpoint, Christine was currently incapable of being objective about anything. And so she stared defiantly at Erik throughout the duration of the meal, determined to prove herself and eating her own food mostly by feel.

For his part, Erik's expression metamorphosed gradually throughout the course of the meal, from belligerence, to puzzlement, and then finally to an awestruck devotion. When they finished, he pushed back his chair and came swiftly toward her, to drop at her feet again imploringly and bury his face in her lap.

"Christine…" His slender fingers reached pleadingly for hers, and she gave them to him with compassion. "How can you bear to look at Erik like that?" He sounded terrified to believe his good fortune, and she quickly sought to comfort him.

"Erik, you can not help the way your face looks. I told you before, that doesn't matter to me anymore."

"But how can that be?" he begged, pressing his cheek against her knees. Was he always going to need so much reassurance, like a frightened little boy?

"Because we are going to go out and get married. I already told you I wanted to do that. I wouldn't want to if your face still bothered me, would I?"

"You said…you said it was Erik's wickedness that made you not want him as a husband," he said, groaning slightly. "And Erik's past has not changed. It can not."

"No, but your future has."

He raised his head and looked up at her. "Erik, you made a very great sacrifice, and you did it for my happiness, because that became more important to you than your own. Was that – was that the biggest sacrifice you ever made?"

He nodded wordlessly.

"All right, then. You see? You changed. You repented. You put my welfare before yours. How could I not admire you for that?"

"But admiration…that is not – is not love," he insisted. He was gripping her hand so hard it hurt, and she tried to hurry the conversation along.

"But I…feel both for you," she said, gasping a little and embarrassed at having to say this. Erik did not seem to notice her discomfort, but said mournfully, "No one has ever loved Erik." He went on looking at her, and she realised that there was a desperate hope in his gaze. He wanted, needed to hear her say it outright.

"But…but now I…I…love you."

It felt wrong in her mouth; was it a lie? Or only unfamiliar, and dreadfully difficult to admit to? But seeing the joy which suffused his hideous features, and the way his hands trembled with emotion, made it impossible to take her words back. She felt awful, telling him this when he needed it so badly and when she was not quite sure it were completely true. She certainly admired him tremendously, did not want to be separated from him and was unhappy when she was, and was greatly concerned about his well-being. Was that love? A single word did not seem sufficient to describe the complicated relationship between them. But what else could she say?

Her mind was not equal to pondering such questions just now. Erik was staring up at her, his unnatural eyes wet, looking as though he wanted to believe her more than he'd ever wanted anything. Recalling what had moved him before, she bent and pressed her lips gently to his forehead. He shuddered, and a tear crept down one of his sunken cheeks. Christine smoothed it away, and then he turned his head just as she dropped hers, and their lips met again. Softly, sweetly this time, a promise instead of a bargain or a conquest.

Just what it was she was promising, or they were promising to each other, she was not sure, and she found she feared the answer. It was easier to retreat back into that mood where nothing seemed quite real and she could focus on mundane things, to the exclusion of the important ones, and so she did. They parted, and she said firmly, "Erik, I must go and change, and so must you." He nodded dazedly and released her, and she stood up and cleared the table before going to the Louis-Philippe room once more.

Sorting through her closet, she drew out a pretty pale blue taffeta gown, trimmed with pleating and embroidered ribbons, with white lace at the neck and sleeves. This would do, it was suitable for a wedding. Not everyone got married in white. She took a quick bath, and dressed as speedily as she could. They would have to hurry if everything were to be accomplished today. It was already past noon, and they would have to visit both a civil clerk and a priest, to get married legally and under God. And there was the problem of needing to be married when it was Lent; well, Erik would just have to pay the dispensation fee. Witnesses; what to do about that? She considered the problem as she brushed out her hair. Mama Valerius and her maid, for the bride's two witnesses. That would take up a lot of time. Mama would certainly need her wheeled chair, and they would have to be very careful when moving her, as she was so frail now. Christine had always been very grateful that her job at the Opera paid well enough to allow her to hire skilled and solicitous attendants to keep her foster mother as comfortable as possible. Explaining Erik to her would be…interesting, but it would have to be done.

But whom would he use for his two witnesses? He seemed utterly alone in the world; Christine knew of no friends or even acquaintances of his save for that strange Persian man. She supposed the Oriental might have some servant or other who could serve as the second witness, but presumably they were both Mohammedans? A heathen could not be a witness at a Catholic wedding, and that was the one which mattered to Christine. Something must be managed. But what? Thinking hard, she sat down at her vanity and put several hairpins in her mouth absent-mindedly. Then she stopped and stared at herself in consternation.

She had forgotten her injury. Her forehead was coloured in alarming shades of red and purple, with several spots where the skin had broken, which were now swollen into uneven lumps. She would have to bathe it in something to keep infection away. But how awful she looked! She couldn't go out like this! Whatever would people think?

Her wounded brain cast about ineffectively for a solution, and then found one. Her fringe! Why, of course. She hadn't yet arranged her hair at all. Why was she being so silly today?

Like most women, Christine wore her forelocks in a fashionable short mass of fluffy curls across her forehead, though she was luckier than most and did not have to employ a curling iron to get them to look stylish. The worst of the injury was near her hairline. She would just try to keep her bangs a little lower than usual, and pick out a hat that cast her face into shadow. Christine touched her cuts gingerly, wincing a bit. It was too bad she did not have her stage makeup with her, as that would have covered the mess nicely. But it was all upstairs in her dressing room. Well, a disguise made up of her forehead fringe combined with a carefully chosen hat should work all right. She twisted up the bulk of her hair into a knot on the back of her head, and stuck pins into it. This made her head hurt worse than it already did, but it couldn't be helped. She certainly could not go out in public with her hair loose. Her mind returned to the problem of witnesses, and, worrying, she finished dressing and went in search of Erik. She found him in the parlour, standing before the piano with his back to her, and something white and filmy in his hands. She had just time to note both that he'd changed clothes and that he'd made a good start on cleaning up the mess, when he turned to face her.

He was holding the wedding veil which he had bought for her. He had forced her to put that on, too, to fully create his frenzied fantasies of her as his bride. But it had not been ruined as the dress had, because the second he let go of her she'd furiously snatched off the veil and hurled it into a far corner of the room, and he had been so busy yelling vengeful words at her, and then with everything else that had happened, that he had never taken the time to go retrieve it and make her wear it again. She supposed it must have been lying forgotten in that corner all night, safe both from her wild retreat underground and his destructive rampage through the house.

But the more startling thing was that he appeared to have donned the lifelike mask which he had bragged to her of creating. It was a shocking difference. It covered him from his scalp to his upper lip, leaving exposed only his chin and lower lip, which were mostly normal. Flesh-toned and quite lifelike, its top edge appeared to be covered by his sleek dark-haired wig, and while if she looked hard, she could see the other edge of it around his mouth, the join was skilfully done and not very noticeable at all. It filled out his sunken cheeks and smoothed the shape of his distorted forehead; it gave him a nose, and a finely carved, aristocratic one at that. With this, he looked almost normal, if one ignored his height and his skeletal hands. He was wearing gloves, true, but nothing could hide the unnerving length of his fingers.

Erik had worn a mask of one kind or another his entire life. He had used them to his advantage in intimidating and manipulating other people. In his black or white masks, he looked mysterious, even supernatural, so that one was irresistibly drawn in and wanted to uncover his secrets; in this one, he just looked…like any other man. What he'd always wanted, or so he said.

But, once she got over her shock, she noted that it was still her Erik under the new mask. It was still his stance, his graceful movements, his thin limbs. And his eyes. Right now, they were apprehensive and awed all at once. His eyes were so expressive. It must be because that had been nearly all of his face which he could use to express his emotions, his whole life. She could not now see much of his real face, but she could still judge what he was feeling from the burning in his eyes. His fingers clenched spasmodically on the veil, and he started to say something and then stopped.

She thought that he must be afraid of her reaction to the new mask. "Erik…" Unsure what else to say, she smiled at him, to give herself a moment to think. Should she comment that he looked much better now? That it would be a great deal easier to go about together in public with this mask on? No, anything of that nature would just point out how problematic everything had been before, and that he could only attain a veneer of normality if he hid his true self. The only other option she could think of was to compliment his work.

"You've done a wonderful job with that mask, Erik. It looks completely lifelike."

That pleased him. He straightened a little, and seemed to regain some composure. Then he took a step toward her, and another, until he was moving steadily closer and closer, holding out the veil.

This was yet another moment where something was happening which had happened once already, but now in an entirely different way. Now Erik was wearing the light grey swallowtail coat and charcoal striped trousers of a bridegroom, not his usual all-black garb, and it was astounding to see him thus attired, as un-Death-like as he could have been unless he were wearing white linen. Why, he even had on grey kid gloves, and a gold and pearl stick pin in his cravat, not the jet one he generally wore, and the cravat was striped in shades of grey, not a plain dull black. And he was not stalking toward her with the veil held out before him as a challenge, his posture dominant and threatening; rather, he had very much the air of a penitent pilgrim timidly approaching a statue of the Virgin, to beg absolution. And he was extending the veil almost as if it were an offering…and one which he was clearly still terrified she would refuse. The fact that she had chosen a _blue_ gown seemed suddenly ironic. He came to a halt before her, bending down in near supplication as his hands visibly shook.

She reached out, and accepted the veil…and all that it meant.

"Let me find a bag for this so it doesn't get damaged, and I'll put it on when we get there," she said gently, and folded it up before reaching out and squeezing his hand. His fingers entwined immediately with hers, needy, wanting to trust. But there was no further time for reassuring him yet again.

When they exited the house and went in the direction of the door on the Rue Scribe, he seemed to regain some confidence, and moved them both along quickly. They emerged from the darkness of the catacombs into a sunny spring day which did Christine's head no good at all, and her eyes adjusted to the light with difficulty. After she had stopped blinking and grimacing, she took a look at Erik, striding along with obvious purpose, and asked, "Where are we going first?"

"To the Girys'."

O-O-O O-O-O


	8. Chapter 8

Good evening, all. My apologies for missing my usual Wednesday night posting this week; life got in the way. By way of apology, I'm offering you not just one new chapter tonight, but two.

For anyone who is wondering; the surname Erik chooses to use to get married with means "dweller in a new city." I thought that appropriate for his embarking upon married life.

 _Chapter 8. April 1887. Second day after Erik abducted Christine (concluded)._

Christine had been greatly surprised to learn that Erik and Madame Giry apparently knew each other well – for Erik, anyway. Well enough, at least, for him to ask her and her eldest daughter to be witnesses. Erik confirmed that the Persian was not qualified to play that role at a Catholic wedding, being a Muslim; then Christine asked for an explanation of his acquaintance with the widow.

"She tended me once when I was very ill, and found out a good deal more about me than I liked. But there was nothing to be done by then, so I made the best of things and worked out an arrangement with her that benefited both of us. She was the attendant for Box Five; it was convenient to have her be my go-between, to collect my salary and for her to convey my wishes to the managers."

When they reached the Girys' flat, Adele confirmed this. "It is true, Christine. I have known Erik for some time. I will explain it more to you another time, when it is not your wedding-day. Come and see me when you can, and I'll tell you all about it."

There had followed a short but firm conversation to satisfy Madame's misgivings about the situation, as Meg stood in the farthest corner of the room, her eyes huge as she stared at the towering figure of Erik. She shouldn't be so unnerved, thought Christine with annoyance, he hardly looked as terrifying as usual dressed as he was today. Finally her mother sent her out with a sharp word. Adele, once reassured as to the changed circumstances and Christine's willingness, had agreed to swear witness and to have Meg do the same thing. Adele excused herself for a brief period to change, and they heard her exhorting the children to do the same. Then there was a visit, en masse and everyone wearing their best clothes, to the small apartment which, up till now, Christine had shared with Mama Valerius. The group filled the entire front room, and there was no place for Meg and her brother and sister to get very far away from Erik, or for him to escape them. But there was no help for it. So Christine was forced to leave a visibly discomfited Adele and her children, and a visibly panicky Erik, together in the little parlour of the flat and went into the bedroom to wake her foster mother.

The old lady was no longer in either physical or mental good health, and it took some time for her to grasp that she was being roused to go to her foster daughter's wedding. Christine worried as they got out the wheelchair which had not been used in months, and she and Anne, the maid, manoeuvred the patient to the side of the bed before helping her to stand so they could get her dressed. Mama's best black silk gown no longer fitted her at all. She'd lost so much weight of late. But it was all that was available, so Christine pinned her foster mother's garnet brooch at her throat, gave her her well-worn rosary and tidied her hair for her, and ignored the half-formed anxieties going on in the back of her mind about nearly everything.

When the two young women wheeled the elderly one out into the flat's tiny, overdecorated parlour, Erik stood instantly up out of the chair he'd been sitting warily in. His hands were trembling; he folded them behind his back, and Christine could tell that he was extremely uncomfortable and wanting to bolt. She hastily made an effort at introductions, thinking how bizarre this all was, but then forgot completely about her own unease when Erik's commendable attempt at the conventional reply resulted in Mama Valerius' clasping her hands together before her and gazing up at him raptly.

"Why, Christine, it is he!" she exclaimed. "How did you manage to convince him to appear like this?"

"What, Mama?"

"My dear, I thought the Angel would appear only to you! But yet here he is, in corporeal form!"

Oh, dear lord. It was perfectly true that Erik's slightest utterance showed the unearthly beauty of his voice, unless he were actively trying to disguise it – and he must have been too ill at ease to think of that. "Mama – this isn't the Angel of Music," muttered Christine, studiously not looking at Erik, who was now radiating displeasure with the entire situation.

"Oh, you're teasing me," said the old woman. "With a voice like that, who else could he be? I know you told me of its beauty, but it must be heard to be believed, just like you said!"

Christine tried again. "No, Mama, he's not an angel. He's a man, the man I am going to marry, and you and Anne must come with me and be my witnesses, like I told you."

She sensed the maid's curious look, and was deeply embarrassed. To be gone for days, repeatedly, and then suddenly show up with a strange man and announce, out of the blue, that they were getting married today… She hoped the maid would not spread the tale around. Doubtless most people would assume that there was only one reason for a couple to marry so precipitously, and would take that sordid explanation for granted even though it was utterly untrue. But then the fact that it might, however, soon _be_ true jabbed at her mind. The room seemed suddenly stifling, and she wished greatly that all these people were not present. Everyone but Mama was looking everywhere but at each other.

Christine hadn't thought too much about that aspect of being married, but now she did, and was abruptly flustered. She was casting unhappily about for something to say to ease the horrible tension that had sprung into being, when her foster mother said thoughtfully, "I suppose God must have allowed him to take human form, then, so he could be your husband? Why, of course! You said you could never marry or he would leave you. But now you can, and be happy. Oh, how wonderful!"

"Mama…" Christine trailed off, at a loss. Her guardian reached out and took her hand. "I worried about that, you know," she said confidentially. "No woman can be really happy without a husband and children, and if you couldn't leave your angel, you could not have that. But now you can have both! Oh, how merciful God is!"

Christine wished that the floor would open up and swallow her. She felt as though her face had never been so red. She chanced a mortified glance at Erik, and saw that he had apparently decided to abandon any effort toward the observance of social etiquette. He had sat back down in his chair, ignoring the fact that there were multiple women standing, and had lowered his head so that she could not meet his eyes. His hand was clenched on the armrest, the muscles and tendons standing out as the spidery fingers clawed upward into the upholstery. Madame Giry looked sharply from him to Christine, nodded once, as if to herself, and straightened her back with an odd air of…resignation? Meg, also red in the face, looked helplessly from her mother to Christine; the two younger children simply appeared bewildered, thank God.

Christine was utterly tongue-tied, and was therefore abjectly grateful when Adele commented blandly, "We had better hurry up if we are to meet with both a notary and a priest today. It is three p.m. already."

Mama Valerius would not be dissuaded from her conviction that Erik was an angel made flesh, and Christine could not muster the words to argue very much. She wrapped her guardian up warmly in her fine black wool shawl, located the necessary identification documents, and then the small bridal party left the little flat, to see the business end of things through first. Christine had signed papers haphazardly, trying to avoid thinking too much. The words swam before her eyes, and she had difficulty focusing enough to see which line to sign on; reading the small print or considering any of it carefully was impossible. They must be married. She wanted to get all this over with. Erik, for his part, had written slowly and laboriously, forming his letters awkwardly as he always did, and looking so undone by everything that she had wondered vaguely if he were managing to remember how to spell his own name, let alone anything else.

His name, and therefore hers, had in fact been something she had not stopped to think about; what, after all, was it going to be? She soon found out. As she ceased to be Christine Daae, the surname she had been given in its place was Villeneuve. Erik had a sheaf of documents attesting to that as his identity, and Christine had shut her mouth firmly and said nothing to the clerk. When she glanced at Madame Giry, she saw a similar expression on the widow's face. Adele met her eyes sardonically, and then folded her hands in her lap and assumed a suitably respectful look. Christine had reflected silently that there were not very many weddings where the husband got a new name as well as the wife.

Back that first day after he had abducted her the initial time, she had asked, over lunch, which country he was from and if his first name meant he was Scandinavian. She had thought that if he were, that might give them something to converse about; it had been so awkward trying to eat with him sitting there at the other end of the table, staring at her with his eyes glowing from behind the mask, and so still that he himself might have been the statue that Don Juan disastrously invited to dinner.

But poor Erik, ignorant of the ways of courtship, had wholly missed the opportunity she offered him, and responded instead that he had no name and no country. She had realised, after a bit, that by "no name," he meant, "no surname." This made no sense; he had to have had a father and a mother at some point. But he would not tell her his family name, and had insisted that she address him merely by his first name, improper though that was at a time when they scarcely knew each other. She had not wanted to press the issue with a man who was clearly quite unstable. And the disjointed bits of information about his mother's revulsion at seeing him, which he had mentioned as he raved at her two nights ago, had made her see that the reason he would not use his family name was because of some horror in his childhood, of which he had only let tiny pieces slip even when at the height of his madness.

But one could not get legally married without a surname, and so he must have taken steps to acquire one. Christine decided she probably did not want to know the details. And eventually the papers were all in order, and they were married. She stared blankly at the unfamiliar signature. _Christine Villeneuve_. It did not seem to really be her name. Why had he chosen that one? She would ask him, later.

Once the legal issues were settled, it was now time to proceed to a church, and to the second ceremony which was necessary in France for those who were devout. A priest's blessing had not sufficed to make a couple legally married since the 1789 Revolution. On the way, Christine had dropped a brief note into the post, telling Raoul tersely that she was breaking off their engagement and could not see him anymore. Erik had said nothing as she did so, but appeared as though he were terrified to believe all this were actually happening. Then a thought struck Christine, and she turned to him and said, "Oh! Your Persian friend. Don't you want to at least invite him to the…ceremony?" She felt inexplicably uncomfortable saying the word "wedding" now.

"That traitorous old busybody has done quite enough, Christine, without being given a chance to call in the rest of the police force and have Erik arrested," Erik informed her, looking haughtily down the nose of the lifelike mask. "I am highly unlikely to be his favourite person in the world just now, after the debacle of Erik's torture chamber. Even though it was that meddling Persian's own fault that he ended up there in the first place."

They were skating too close to having to actually mention Raoul's name, thought Christine, and Erik did not seem to want to do so; that was likely for the best just now, so she wouldn't either. She tried to change the subject, and said, sounding rather more curt than she meant to, "Let's go, then. The Madeleine is that way." She turned and began stalking away, her heels clicking on the pavement.

Erik stood still at first, obviously taken aback, but then followed her. She must have appeared angry, though, because he said grudgingly, "I will go and see him in a few days. He must be allowed to cool down a bit first."

"Didn't you say you just dropped him off on his own doorstep? Well, then he will have no notion what happened. Why don't you send him a letter?" she asked, turning her head back to look at him. "That way he will know at least that we are all safe and well, and you can tell him that we are…married."

Married. Oh, God. She felt dizzy again, but then Erik lengthened his stride back to what was natural for him and came up alongside her, and with an air of incredulous delight about him that was extraordinarily moving, tentatively extended his arm. And she could not do anything but take it. She felt him quiver when she did so, and the muscles of his arm were hard as iron under her hand. There was an answering shiver in her own stomach, and she wasn't sure what it meant. Soon they would be really married, not just signing papers. But this was right, she reminded herself, this was what they were going to do. All brides felt misgivings, it was normal.

She focused her eyes on his shoes, finely made, black leather wing-tips, and he said placatingly, "I will do so. Yes, I am sure he has no idea of how things went after he fell asleep in Erik's parlour, and will be very worried. A letter will reassure him, you are right, and give him time to stop being angry with Erik before Erik pays him a visit."

His voice helped. Her doubts eased a bit, and her stomach settled. After a few moments of silence, Christine glanced up at her maestro, and realised that this was the very first time she had ever seen him in the light of day. It seemed fitting that that first time would be their wedding-day.

It had been a small and simple ceremony. Though it had actually taken place in the same church that Erik had insisted he wanted, his wedding mass was not played. He did not seem to mind. His hand had trembled so that he could barely get the ring on Christine's finger. The cold, clear images of the day were permanently imprinted in her mind; Meg's doubtful looks, Adele's sternness, the worn rosary twined in Mama Valerius' knobby fingers and the expression of serene devotion on her aged face, the priest standing before them, and the light falling through the stained glass windows onto them in many-coloured patterns as they kneeled together. And the leaping, irrepressible light of complete and overwhelming joy in Erik's golden eyes, that had strengthened her resolve that she was indeed making the correct choice.

O-O-O O-O-O


	9. Chapter 9

And here is the next chapter. Just to make sure no one is taken aback by the mention of Christine wearing a corset while she's pregnant; yes, it's completely safe to do so. She isn't very far along. I am very involved in historical reenacting as a hobby, and dress up in period clothing a couple of times a week. When I was pregnant with my son I was able to wear my corsets laced normally until I was three months along, then laced loosely for another couple of months, and didn't really have to switch to a maternity corset until around five months. He's absolutely fine. :) Corsets are not torture devices if worn sensibly. Do feel free to private message me if you'd like further information on Victorian clothing, but I don't want to make this particular Author's Note longer than necessary, so I'll end here. Onward to the cooking lesson...

 _Chapter 9. July, 1887. Three months after the wedding. Friday (continued)._

And now here they were, married irrevocably, and expecting a child. Which might be the last one they ever had, if Christine couldn't get her husband away from that piano.

Christine went to the door and peeked out. Erik was fully engrossed in his music once again, deaf to the world. Her eyes passed over him, seeing the way his shoulder blades were too visible and his jaw clenched. He was wearing a thoroughly wrinkled dressing gown over black trousers and a shirt whose cuffs were liberally stained with ink. His face – well, what could be seen of it – was even paler than usual. Though he was still wearing his mask, he had not bothered to put on one of his wigs, and what little hair he possessed was standing disreputably on end. He looked, in short, even worse than usual. Feeling a stab of pity mixed with exasperation, she turned and went to the sink. She filled a pitcher at the tap and took up a glass; she would at least put some water out for him. God knew how long it had been since he'd last had anything to drink.

"I'll be right back," she said, and Adele, busily unpacking their sacks, nodded.

Christine went back out into the parlour and set the pitcher and glass down, where he might see it if he happened to take his eyes off his work for two seconds together, but safely out of the range of his long arms. The last time he'd gone into one of these fits of composing, she'd thought to bring him a cup of tea and set it down next to him; but Erik, not knowing it was there, had reached out a blindly groping hand for a new sheet of paper and knocked the teacup over. The tea had, of course, spilled directly onto his work. There followed a most unpleasant scene, which she had no desire to repeat. With another dubious look at him, she hurried to put on a work dress and apron.

When she entered the kitchen again, Adele had donned the apron she had brought and was stirring up the fire in the stove. The supplies Christine had purchased were laid out on the table in the centre of the room. There was enough to make dinner not only for Christine and Erik, but also another batch for Adele and the children. There had been some resistance to this plan from Adele, but Christine had won the argument.

"Christine, there is no need for you to pay for our dinner."

"Yes, there is," said Christine firmly, putting two heads of garlic and some celery into her basket. "As a thank-you for helping me, if nothing else. And Erik certainly owes you something for everything he put you through over the years."

"He certainly does," agreed the widow, "but I do not like to see you spending your money on us. I am very capable of putting food on our table."

"It's Erik's money, not mine," said Christine, "And Lord knows he has enough of it, mostly ill-gotten. He makes me use only his money for household expenses and my own spending money, and save my own. Let me use a bit of this for something worthwhile for a change. It's the managers' money, after all; figure it's them buying you dinner if you want. I won't hear of anything else."

Christine had gone on to purchase spices, apples and ingredients for pastry crust, following her mentor's instructions as to what was the best.

"See these apples, Christine? They are the best kind for tarts. Do not use this kind here, they will not work nearly as well."

"Why?"

"Because these will turn to mush when cooked, while the first ones I showed you will hold their shape and be much nicer to look at."

Christine dutifully put the apples indicated into her basket. Now, they sat on the table, waiting to be sliced.

"What must I do first?" Christine inquired.

"Chop the onions. We must cut them into pieces about this size, see?"

Christine watched carefully, and followed the instructions as best she could. Adele moved from her own tasks to the stove to Christine's side fluidly, pointing out what the younger woman was doing incorrectly and showing her the proper way.

"Here, Christine, not that way. Hold your knife like this, see? See how much easier – Oh, for heaven's sake!" Adele slammed the utensil down on the table and looked toward the parlour in exasperation. "Isn't he ever going to get that line to his liking?"

Erik had, in fact, been playing the same bit of melody over and over and over, with minor variations as he tried out different methods of getting the sound he wanted. Christine was perfectly used to this sort of thing by now, but it could indeed be annoying in the extreme. Apparently the composer thought so too, because there was a sudden howl of rage and a muffled thud, as of something hitting the wall.

"What was that?" asked Adele, startled.

"Who knows," said Christine, shrugging. "Just so long as it wasn't the inkpot, but I don't _think_ he'd throw that."

There was a string of incomprehensible words bellowed from the other room, and Adele looked questioningly at Christine, who rolled her eyes and explained, "He thinks I can't tell he's swearing if he does it in a foreign language."

Adele nodded in understanding, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. "Well, at least he _is_ still thinking of you."

"I suppose so," answered Christine, and smiled back. She turned back to her chopping. "Like this? Is this right?"

Together, they assembled the soup ingredients in a deep pot on the stove, and then it was time to season them.

"Now the salt – no, Christine, not that much!" Adele grabbed her protégée's wrist. "We French do not salt our food as much as you Scandinavians do. You must learn to like food with only enough salt to enhance the flavour of the other ingredients, not overpower them."

"Yes," Christine said, embarrassed. "Erik is always telling me I use too much salt."

"Here. This is about how much to use. Any more and you will ruin it. Now the pepper – see how much I am putting in?"

Christine nodded obediently. "When do we put the wine in?"

"Now. We will need to deglaze the pan with it – that means to put some into the pan we used to brown everything, bring it to a boil, and pour it over the other ingredients. This will put every last bit of flavour into them, instead of leaving it in the pan."

"All right," said Christine. "I will go and get some wine. White, right?"

At Adele's affirmative nod, Christine went through the door in the side of the kitchen wall which she knew led down to Erik's wine cellar. She flicked on the switch for the electric lights, which no longer shocked her as they had when she first came here – Erik really was clever to have been able to electrify his entire house – and went down the stairs into the room below. She walked into the centre of it and stopped, looking around at the dozens of bottles that surrounded her. Adele had been vastly amused to learn that the Opera Ghost had his own wine cellar in the basements of the Opera House, and that it was as extensive as this.

"Well, what better place for it, I suppose," she'd said, laughing.

Christine hunted until she found the correct section. She did not come down here very often. Her hand hovered uncertainly over the bottles; she felt unbearably young and ignorant. After a few moments, she picked two of them, her choice based entirely on their attractive labels. If Erik couldn't be bothered to participate in the evening's wine selection, he'd just have to drink what she chose. He'd bought them, after all. But on the whole, she reflected as she went back up the stairs, perhaps she wouldn't tell him that she'd chosen them based on their labels.

Eventually, everything was done. The finished soup was in its pot on the back of the stove, keeping warm; the apple tarts sat steaming on the countertop. The table was set with china and silver, with one place setting at each end, a bouquet of flowers, and long white tapers in the candelabras, waiting to be lit. Brushing off Christine's effusive thanks, Adele packed up her portion of their afternoon's endeavours and left, promising that the next lesson would be in poaching fish. Christine was encouraged; she liked fish. However, she thought Adele was unlikely to teach her the methods of cooking them that she had once enjoyed back in Sweden. Oh, well. If Erik liked her efforts, that would be good enough. Perhaps eventually she'd introduce him to the flavours of her home country. But not till after she mastered the art of French cooking.

Now, however, she needed a bath. She would have a nice long soak, she decided, and then get dressed in a pretty evening gown, before bringing the food to the table and lighting the candles. Her resolve faltered somewhat as she passed him on her way to the bathroom; he was still in the same condition he'd been in hours ago, though the water had, she noticed, been drunk. Surely…surely he wouldn't refuse to come and eat dinner with her, when she'd tried so hard to cook it for him? She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, looking at him over her shoulder, and then turned determinedly toward the hallway where the bedrooms and bathrooms were. She'd just have to _make_ him stop working. She could do it. Of course. Definitely.

O-O-O

Christine went into the Louis-Philippe bedroom – their bedroom, effectively now, as she'd made Erik stop sleeping in his coffin and the other bedroom both – and through it into its green marbled bathroom. She started the tub filling, put in some lilac-scented bath salts, and went back into the bedroom to get undressed. Once naked, she moved about the room, tossing her chemise, drawers and stockings into the laundry hamper and hanging up her dress and petticoats. She put her shoes onto their shelf; now there remained only her corset to put away, and she started toward the other side of the room to put it into the armoire.

Halfway there, she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and stopped dead. She'd seen herself before, of course, but for some reason felt compelled to stop and stare at her own naked body. She wasn't showing a bit; she was not even two months along, and the doctor had told her that it would be perhaps two more before there was any appreciable change in her figure. Her eyes travelled over the familiar lines, full breasts – she'd developed early, starting her monthly bleeding at fifteen – tiny waist, round hips and thighs, with small ankles and feet.

Just how much was pregnancy going to change her looks? Erik loved her body, he'd told her so many times; what if he didn't like the way she looked afterward? Would he turn cold to her? What if he found another woman with a better figure?

She told herself firmly that this was ridiculous, that her husband loved her, and that in any case poor Erik was highly unlikely to find another woman who would receive him (the unkind thought came unbidden, but she could not stop it). She ran her hand over herself, thinking that the whole thing was a fait accompli anyway. Her vanity would not be stilled so easily, however, and as she looked down at the corset in her other hand, the potential loss of her splendid figure seemed suddenly far more tragic than it had a moment ago. She'd always had that reassurance; it was something she could simply take for granted, that she could achieve the desirable neat waist without pulling her laces dreadfully tight as a few of the more vain women of the time did. She'd gloried in her husband's open adoration of her body, in the thousand compliments he paid her, in the obvious fact that looking at her drove him nearly mad with desire, so much so that he frequently could not control himself. Would she never again experience the thrill of his suddenly seizing her and tossing her onto the couch or the hearthrug or whatever else was convenient, throwing up her skirts and hunting madly for the opening in her drawers, and taking her without even managing to get them both undressed first? Would she never again enjoy hearing his beautiful voice whispering to her how lovely he found her, as his long hands slid over her bare skin and made her twist and writhe amongst the bedclothes? All over, all over!

Christine collapsed to the floor and wept stormily, her body heaving. After a few moments she found she couldn't breathe, and got up to get a handkerchief. As she was blowing her nose she remembered the bathtub, and dashed into the bathroom to find to her relief that it had not overflowed yet. She turned off the tap and leaned against the tub for a moment, wondering if Erik had heard her crying. She listened; no, the piano music was still issuing unabated from the front room. She snorted. Typical.

She put the handkerchief aside and lowered herself into the bathtub, sighing as she relaxed back against it. At first she remained annoyed at Erik for not coming to comfort her; then, after a bit, she began to think of how embarrassing it would have been to have him find her in a heap on the bedroom floor sobbing, stark naked and clutching a corset (which, she recalled, was still in the middle of the floor). The whole thing seemed unbearably ridiculous now. Was this the beginning of the emotional upsets the doctor had warned her about? How many more times was she going to go to pieces over something trivial?

Oh, well. Who knew, maybe if this happened in front of Erik, it might actually distract him from his composing.

Maybe.

Christine reached for the soap and lathered up the washcloth. She slid it slowly over her breasts, and couldn't help thinking of her husband's hands doing so instead. The fears of his loss of interest forgotten, she closed her eyes and thought longingly of sharing love with him. It had been two days already before he'd started on this latest bout of work, as she'd been unusually tired, which she now could attribute to her condition. So, now it had been three days, and that was far longer than they usually went without indulging themselves. What a change it had been, to end up with the open enjoyment of each other that they now both revelled in.

Especially since their wedding night had been a fiasco of the highest order.

O-O-O O-O-O


	10. Chapter 10

Well, folks, you wanted to hear what happened on the wedding night... be careful what you wish for.

 _Chapter 10. April, 1887. The wedding night._

"Oh, Christine. Christine."

Erik had seemed unable to say anything but her name now, as he lay with his face buried in her hair, shaking. After a long time he muttered, "Thank you," and then was quiet. Christine stared at the ceiling, thinking that as mortifying as that afternoon's conversation with Adele had been, things would have been far worse without it.

When they entered the church, a priest was located without difficulty. However, Christine had been noticing several sideways glances which Madame Giry had been giving her along the way, and once the priest agreed to perform the ceremony and accepted Erik's money, the box keeper had stepped boldly forward and said, "Father, the bridegroom has not been to confession for quite some time. He must remedy that before you can marry them."

Erik cast the widow such a scathing look that Christine herself wanted to cower, just from witnessing it directed at someone else. But the redoubtable woman just looked blandly back at him, and when the priest said with concern, "Indeed? Yes, it must be seen to first. Come this way, my son," the yellow-eyed glare had shifted in his direction. The clergyman took a step backwards instinctively, and then visibly tried to recover his composure. In another minute, thought Christine, he would cross himself.

"Erik," she said rebukingly. The demonic stare lessened infinitesimally, but he hissed, "Are you quite sure, Madame? Father? We shall be in the confessional a very long time. I should not wish to leave my bride waiting out here."

"Not to worry," said Adele cheerfully. "I shall take Mademoiselle Daae into the powder room and help her tidy her hair and dress, and arrange her veil. I am sure you want her to look her best for her wedding! Now, off with you. We ladies need some time to ourselves." She made a shooing motion with her hand. Erik had stood stock still for a moment, dividing his glare between both women, before turning on his heel and stalking away.

Once the two women had retired to a dressing room, Adele shut the door firmly behind them and turned to face Christine. "My dear, you have told me that you want to get married without delay."

"I – I – yes," said Christine, ducking her head as she realised what the widow was likely asking. Sure enough, Adele's next words were, "Are you with child? Is that what this is about?"

"No!"

The older woman cocked her head to one side. "No?"

"No."

"You are sure?"

"Yes," whispered Christine, mortified. "It is…an impossibility."

"Good," said Adele with satisfaction. "I was worried. Then, why all this rush?"

"Because…my decision has been put off too long. I…could not choose – " Christine greatly regretted the times she had rapturously talked to Madame and Meg of her feelings for Raoul. Now she had to eat her words and the taste was bitter. "I…could not choose between them, for too long. Now…I have. And so I wish it to be settled as quickly as possible, so that we can…begin our life together." She was fully aware that her stammering was not helping her case.

Adele regarded her sceptically. "Well, it is your decision, that is true. You are of age. But Christine, marriage is permanent."

"I know," Christine answered wretchedly.

"It is not a game like the one you had with the Vicomte."

"I wasn't playing a game with him!" said Christine with indignation.

"Well, I could never be sure of whether you were serious about marrying the Vicomte."

"It didn't… it did not seem real sometimes… we were keeping it a secret, after all. At least I hope we were…"

"If you didn't want everyone to know of it, you might have refrained from swanning about the corridors of the Opera with him, bold as brass. But I know most things that go on in that Opera House," said Adele, and then added, with a wry smile, "Though not as much as your fiancé."

It was the first time that anyone had referred to Erik that way, and Christine quailed. Only a little, but enough that the perceptive Madame Giry noticed it.

"Christine, you are _sure_? You can not do this otherwise."

"Y-yes. I am."

"Erik will not be an easy man to live with."

"Yes. I am sure you're right."

"He has been damaged, possibly permanently, by the life he has led. You will have to have the patience of a saint to manage him. Much, much more so than the Vicomte, who would be putty in most women's hands."

"I'm not going to marry Raoul!" said Christine impatiently. "I never really – " She stopped, realising how coldly callous it would sound to say, "I never really loved him that way anyway." Raoul had thought she did, and her abandonment of him would undoubtedly hurt him to the core. He was so naïve, and so trusting; still very much a boy, and she had taken no heed whatever of that, in order to satisfy her own selfishness and capriciousness. She would have to confess that to the priest. True, once she realised belatedly that she was using Raoul as a way of insulating herself from her feelings for her teacher, and that the Vicomte believed himself to be in love with her, she had tried to pull him up short. But by then it was too late. Really, her behaviour had been abominable. She would not blame Raoul if he hated her forever. Guilt filled her, and she said hastily, "I never knew till just last night that I could not be parted from my teacher." What a good thing Adele had no idea of what had transpired after Erik kidnapped her off the stage. "But he – he came and found me, and we – talked, and – well, then I realised it."

Events could not possibly be glossed over any more than that, she reflected ruefully. Madame again appeared distinctly sceptical, but finally shrugged and said, "As you wish, then. But Christine – are you aware of what a husband's rights are?"

Christine gasped.

"Are you?"

"Y – yes," murmured Christine, her throat closing up with embarrassment and apprehension.

"You are marrying him as a man, Christine. He is no angel, and no ghost. You must be willing to treat him as your husband. It would not be fair otherwise. This is no longer a game."

"I – I know," Christine stammered. "I know – he is a man. I learned that a long time ago."

"Have you?" asked Adele, looking at her searchingly. "Well, if you are determined to go through with this, I am going to see to it that you at least have some idea of what your duty to him will be."

It had been the most uncomfortable conversation that Christine had ever had, as she was firmly sat down in a chair before the little vanity table the room contained. She'd known generally what Adele was referring to, but to actually talk about such things with her – it had been one thing to have whispered, giggling talks with the other chorus girls, but this…

She hadn't even been able to meet the widow's eyes in the mirror, wishing she could sink through the floor as Adele stood behind her and redid her hair, talking as steadily as if she had been explaining a knitting pattern. Calmly she slid each hairpin back in and arranged the wedding veil, all the while speaking more forthrightly than Christine could ever have imagined someone could on this subject. Finally the older woman tweaked one last silk flower into place, stepped back, and then said tartly, "You are as white as a sheet. I suppose you are going to back out, now, having not stopped to think of this until I made you do it?"

"No!" snapped Christine. She already felt guilty about the way in which she had used Raoul; under no circumstances was she going to let the widow see her do the same thing to another man. She was mortified and smarting. Everyone doubted her. Erik; Madame. They both thought she didn't possess the courage to go through with this marriage. Well, she would! And did Madame _have_ to have spoken so frankly? She turned away and marched haughtily out of the room, and toward her new life.

She had, however, thanked God that she'd been made to listen when, on their wedding night, Erik approached her hesitantly, obviously terrified of rejection. She'd clasped his hands in hers and said in his ear, "I mean to be a proper wife to you, my dear. I married you intending to do so."

That had been enough, apparently. He'd taken her in his arms and finally let his terrible need take control of him, fumbled with the unfamiliar closures of her clothing, clutched desperately at her body, and eventually, after it was all over, wept against her shoulder. She'd been uncomfortable then, in pain from his claiming of her and more than a little shaken at the sheer physical immediacy of it all, but she hadn't let him see that, as Madame Giry had instructed her.

"It will get better," had been the advice. "Soon, you may even enjoy it more than he does. Women can experience release again and again, far more times than a man can at one time. It will hurt at first, but not so much as to be unbearable. Still, you must not let him see that he is causing you pain. It would cut him too deeply."

So, remembering this, Christine now merely lay there next to her prostrate husband, unwilling to move or speak for fear of inadvertently showing her real feelings about the whole business.

 _Is this it?_ she was thinking. _Is it true that it will get better, or will it always be like this? How could any woman like this? How could the other girls talk as though they enjoyed it? It's so…so strange, and it seems so undignified._

 _I think maybe Erik didn't like it either. He... he groaned so, at the end, as though it hurt awfully, and then he just…just lay there, like he was disappointed!_

 _No, wait, didn't Madame say that would happen? Yes, yes, she did. I remember now._

"Behaving as though one's spine has abruptly evaporated is a excellent indication of male satisfaction. Not very gentlemanly, I suppose, but there it is."

"Really?" Christine said doubtfully.

"Yes. Don't squirm out from under him too quickly either, or he'll think you've been revolted by the whole thing. Which you may well be, but don't let him see that either, for God's sake."

"It seems…it seems like there are a lot of things he shouldn't know. About what I think of this, I mean," Christine ventured timidly.

"There are," Madame Giry said frankly. "Men always want to know what a woman thinks about the marriage bed. But heaven forbid they should ever actually find out."

"Is it…well, is it right to keep such things from one's husband?" asked Christine. "Shouldn't a marriage include honesty?"

"Of course it should, when it's helpful," her impromptu mentor answered, "and by all means tell him if it continues to hurt you, or if you want him to do something specific. But not just at first. It will be overwhelming for him, and he will be terrified of hurting or repulsing you, for obvious reasons. Overcoming his past is going to be hard for him; he will be expecting you to reject him as others have done. You must help him all you can."

"I'll – I'll try."

"This will not be easy. He is no normal man and never can be."

"I know."

Christine's thoughts were dragged abruptly back, as Erik was finally stirring. He raised his head, looked at her searchingly, and then propped himself up on one elbow. In utter silence he gazed at her body, and then ran a hand slowly down the length of it. She steeled herself not to shrink away, or grab for the sheet. Lying stark naked with another human being, and a man at that, was something completely unfamiliar, and shocking. It was difficult to get her head round how much things had changed between them, and how quickly.

"Will you not say something, Erik?" Christine eventually asked. He was unnerving her. When he spoke, his voice was low and raspy.

"Did I hurt you very much, Christine?"

"Oh, no, no!"

He looked surprised, and pressed, "Are you sure?"

"Yes, Erik."

"Really?"

"Yes, Erik, I'm perfectly fine. Don't worry."

He appeared very thoughtful, and murmured, "Hmmm." He ran a hand up the inside of her leg, and cupped her lightly. She fought to restrain her body's instinctive pulling away. Surely he wasn't going to want her again so soon? Wouldn't he give her a little time to recuperate? But his fingers were already sliding inside her, and she clenched her teeth so as not to cry out at the pain.

"So…" he said, "This does not hurt you at all?" Why was he pushing this? She girded herself up to lie once more.

"No, it doesn't hurt me."

Something changed in his face then; she saw it. A hardening, a smouldering; and then the embers caught. He whirled away from her and jumped out of bed, and she was too shocked to move for a minute. What was going on? She blinked, shook her head, and sat up. He had dressed amazingly fast, and was already yanking his shirt over his head.

"Erik! What's the matter?"

"Nothing, my dear wife," he seethed, snatching his dressing gown and shoving his arms into it. "Only that you must forgive Erik for his stupidity in thinking he had married an innocent."

"What?! Erik, what on earth are you talking about?"

"You fool, Christine. Did you honestly not know enough to at least pretend you were virginal? Or did you enjoy it so much your first time that you had no idea it was supposed to hurt?"

She couldn't make sense of this at all, and stuttered, "What – what – "

"So, who did have the honour, Christine, tell me! Was it the Vicomte? Did he overcome your weak protests eventually? I always knew he was a cad."

She managed to cry, "No! Raoul never touched me, I swear it!"

He came closer to the bed, his yellow eyes wild, nearly foaming at the mouth as he raged, "Oh, so it was someone else then? Who? Carolus Fonta? One of the managers? A stagehand? Or did you give yourself to someone before you even came to the Opera House? Ah, yes, that must be it, for Erik would have known if you had anyone while you were here. How old were you then, sixteen? My, you started early. But I suppose a whore is a whore no matter how young?"

At that last offensive word, she finally found her voice.

"How can you say such things to me?" she wailed. "How can you even think them?"

"How could I not, with such proof as I've just had?" he bellowed back. "If you'd been a virgin, it would have hurt you! And yet you swore again and again that you weren't hurt at all!"

Oh God, what a terrible mess this had become! She hadn't wanted to lie in the first place, and now it had made him think this of her!

"No, no, you're wrong, you don't know – "

"I don't need to know any more," he ranted, looming over her. "That was enough. I have all the information I need. Please, do not regale me with the tales of all your conquests. I doubt I could stand it."

" _How dare you_!" she screeched, at the top of her trained lungs. Furious, she snatched a book off the nightstand and flung it at him. But he leapt effortlessly out of the way of the projectile, and there was a sudden sound of shattering glass. The pieces of the broken dressing table mirror cascaded down and all over the tabletop and the chair.

They both jumped. Then Erik turned from the sight of the bits of glass on the carpet, and sneered, "Now look what you've done. I bought that mirror just for you! God knows I don't want the damned things in my house!"

"What I've – How could you – I've never, never – " She was spluttering with rage, unable to form a coherent sentence, and he interrupted her rudely.

"Forgive me if I can not believe you, Christine. As I said, it is you who must forgive Erik for being so stupid." He turned and rushed out of the bedroom, slamming the door so hard the walls rattled. In another moment angry chords began ringing through the house.

O-O-O O-O-O


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter 11. April, 1887. The wedding night, and what followed._

Christine sat dumbfounded on the bed. She felt as though he'd hit her, with no warning whatsoever. Then she had a muddled thought that it might have hurt less if he had. Her whole heart felt cut through to the quick, and she wondered, _"How can his accusations hurt so much when they are completely untrue?"_ She felt as though she'd somehow done something wrong, though she couldn't fathom what; it was as if he'd opened up her brain and found something in it that she'd never dreamed was there, something disgusting and vile. But how could he have done so, when she'd never done anything even remotely like what he'd accused her of, nor even wanted to? How could she be – be what he'd called her?

She felt a sudden, desperate urge to go after him and insist that he was wrong, make him see that he'd been utterly unfair and that he must apologize. Not stopping to think, she jumped out of bed and threw on her own dressing gown, and ran out of the Louis-Philippe room, only to find his room's door locked. Incensed, she rattled the doorknob, pounded on it, finally screamed his name over and over, all to no avail. The music continued unmercifully, and she eventually slid into a heap on the floor. Could he even hear her over the noise of the organ? Or was it that he just wouldn't answer her?

Christine wept for a while, hoping he might come out of the room and see her crying, and realise how much he'd hurt her. But he didn't, and after a while she couldn't cry any more. She lay on the floor for some time, but finally had to rise. She turned automatically toward the bedroom, but then paused. Another tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it away, thinking that she really couldn't bear going back into that room just now. Going into the parlour instead, she collapsed onto a couch, her head throbbing as she drifted off to an uneasy sleep. She would simply wait Erik out. He'd have to come out of his room sometime.

He didn't. Or rather, he didn't while she was awake. He seemed to have an uncanny sense of when she was asleep, and to creep out of his bedroom only then. She knew he was doing this, because the next day she found a used wineglass left on the kitchen table, which had not been there before; but no matter how much she hammered on his door and shouted at him, he wouldn't come out to her. Christine braved the bridal bedroom long enough to bathe, change, and sweep up the broken glass, wishing all the while that she had managed to hit Erik with the book. But she had no further opportunities to try it, for his door stayed stubbornly closed. For some time she could hear no sounds at all from inside it, and she wondered if he had one of his secret doors in that room, and might have left the house completely. It was, in a way, a relief when the music eventually started up again.

On Sunday she went to Mass, hoping that he would have emerged once she got back, but he hadn't, and she wondered if he had merely used his remaining alarm bell to tell when she was returning, and hide from her again. Another silent and solitary evening ensued, and she went angrily through his books, tossing some on the floor in frustration as she tried to find something that would take her mind off the situation. Balzac, Dumas, Hugo, Baudelaire, Flaubert…no, she definitely didn't want to read the depressing story of Madame Bovary. She came across a copy of _Don Quixote_ , and was able to puzzle out some of the Spanish by way of its similarity to French, but not enough to be able to properly follow the story. What else? There were any number of books in assorted foreign languages and alphabets, but she only knew a little Italian and German, from reading the librettos of operas. Erik had gotten her a few books in Swedish, but she had read them all.

As she dug through the bookshelves again, she came across a set of the volumes of Casanova's _Story of My Life_. Christine stopped, shocked. She knew the name of Casanova only as an unrepentant womanizer; why on earth would Erik be interested in the exploits of such a man? The two could not be more different, surely?

Temptation warred with modesty. She didn't want to read the memoirs of such a man…did she? Finally she grabbed the first volume of the memoirs and a biography of Casanova that was next to them, and sat down on the couch. Opening the biography to a random page, she read, "Prince Charles de Ligne, a friend and uncle of his future employer, described Casanova thusly in 1784: 'He would be a good-looking man if he were not ugly; for he is tall, eyes full of life and fire, but touchy, wary, rancorous – and this gives him a ferocious air. It is easier to put him in a rage than to make him gay. He laughs little, but makes others laugh; he has a manner of saying things which reminds me of Harlequin or Figaro, and which makes them sound witty.' "

Well. Perhaps Casanova and Erik did have a few things in common. Did Erik know these things about himself, though? In some matters he displayed an astonishing lack of self awareness. Had he ever read this biography? Fascinated, she flipped back to the beginning of the book, and read of Casanova's neglect and ill-treatment by his parents, his extensive travels, his repeated banishments from this or that city, his interest in science and in alchemy, his work as a spy, his skill at the violin, and his daring escape from a Venetian prison. The man seemed to have a liking for any and all intellectual pursuits, as well as amorous ones; why, he had even worked with Lorenzo da Ponte on the libretto for Mozart's _Don Giovanni_ , and attended the opera's premiere. Such a man must have written an intriguing memoir indeed, and Christine opened the first volume of it eagerly, modesty forgotten. She read until her head began to ache again, gasping quietly from time to time at the often explicit descriptions of the man's many romantic conquests, wide-eyed at how much such activities seemed to matter to men. It was…thought-provoking.

But she was still alone. On Monday morning, her head hurt so much that she went to see her doctor. She did not, of course, tell him that her pain was self-inflicted, merely that she had had an unfortunate fall. But the physician told her some disturbing things about how serious her injury might actually be. She was to let her brain rest, he instructed her, and not to do anything which might cause any strain or fatigue. Make no important decisions, lie quietly, do not allow oneself to be upset in any way, he said; let others read to you if you are bored, even. Well, that sort of charmed existence was just about as far as possible from what she was currently experiencing, she thought angrily as she paid the man his fee, and went to sit in a quiet corner of a café to give her situation the consideration it had to have. This made her head hurt even more, and it was difficult to think in the manner she needed to. Over first one and then two glasses of wine, she kept coming inexorably back to the fact that their marriage had been consummated. Painfully – for her at least – and disastrously, but consummated all the same. That meant that it was a true marriage in the eyes of God, she reflected. To get an annulment would, therefore, be a sin. Erik was her husband now, for good or for ill, and she must find a way to make relations between them work.

But the current state of affairs was intolerable. Christine began to think in ever more unhinged ways of how to make her new husband stop his dreadful behaviour. After a long period of deliberation, with occasional tears dabbed furtively away with her handkerchief, and dwelling on several things Madame Giry had said, she decided on her course of action.

O-O-O O-O-O


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter 12. April, 1887. Monday, three days after the wedding._

At home, with shaking fingers she put on her prettiest, most diaphanous and see-through robe…without anything on underneath it. She'd been told that men loved to look at unclothed women; well, she'd put it to the test. While she wouldn't be completely undressed, this would be as close to it as she could bear, and he'd certainly be able to see her body; this garment left nothing to the imagination when there was no nightgown or undergarment beneath it. She had no idea what else to do.

So, now she must get him out of his room; she had a scheme for how to do this as well. She went out to the parlour, propped the door open, and stationed herself at the spot where her voice would carry the best. She felt dreadfully exposed, and couldn't help futilely wrapping the gown closed and holding it there with her arms, before she could continue with her plan. Singing without accompaniment was not easy for her, but that was just as well, this time. She began to sing Marguerite's Jewel Song from _Faust_ , which she knew was one of the ones Erik liked most to hear her perform. However, while she would normally have strived with every cell of her body to gain his approval by singing it as perfectly as she possibly could, now she did not! Now she wobbled, missed notes, made sure her pitch was off. It hurt, actually, to sing this way, but perhaps…perhaps…

 _Yes!_ The music issuing from the other room stopped abruptly, and there was a waiting, pulsating silence. Christine gamely had another go, this time reaching for a note and making her voice squeak and crack till she caused her own ears to ache. Another couple of seconds, and…

Success. There was a slamming noise from out in the hallway; his bedroom door. Then a glowering Angel of Music flew into the parlour, seized her by the shoulders and roared, "What the hell are you _doing_ , Christine?"

"Making you come out of that room!" snapped Christine, too angry herself to cringe before his fury as she would normally have done. "How else was I supposed to do it?"

Erik paused, glaring at her through the eyeholes of the black mask he had resumed, and then shook her till her hair flew around her face. "How _dare_ you do that to your voice? Do you realise the harm you could have do – "

He stopped in the middle of a word, suddenly noticing her attire…or rather, lack thereof. The dressing gown was now hanging completely open down the front. He was holding her at arms' length already, and now his burning eyes slid over her, first incredulously, then slowly, gradually, with dawning lust. She watched, immensely gratified. He couldn't ignore her, after all! She'd make him capitulate!

He raised his eyes to hers, and she saw that they held a mixture of rage and desire. Would it prove a fatal one?

"What a display," he sneered. "Your skills are consummate indeed. Tell me, how many other men has this worked on?"

Rage bloomed in her own heart now, and she wrenched free and slapped him across the face as hard as she could. He put a hand to his cheek, shocked. The thin material of his mask could not have afforded him much protection. Good.

"Don't you dare say such things to me!" she screamed. "Don't you dare! I never had a lover before you, never! And it did hurt me, it did! I only said it didn't so that _I_ wouldn't hurt _your_ feelings, and this is how you treat me in return! I'm your wife now, and you promised before God and man to be my husband! You begged me on your knees for the right to love me, and is this how you do it? I should have known you wouldn't keep your promise! You make dreadful, unfounded, _cruel_ accusations, and you shut yourself away from me for days! What if I'd drowned in the lake? It'd be all your fault, you monster!"

That word seemed to goad him, as none other had. He grabbed her with hands that hurt, yanked her against him and hissed, "Monster, am I? We'll see just how monstrous Erik can be! He has done many bad things, but he has never taken a woman against her will, till now!" The visible part of his face was livid with rage, his eyes as wild as they had been on their wedding night, his teeth bared. She didn't think she'd seen him quite this angry at any other time. "But it can't be a violation if it's you, can it, dear wife? If we're going to start accusing each other of not living up to our marriage vows, well, it's my right to have you whenever I choose, and you can't refuse me without sinning before God! You're _my_ property now, damn it, and so I shall take you, right here on the parlour floor, and we'll just see whether your protestations of innocence are true or not!"

He kissed her with lips that bruised, clutching awkwardly at her face with one hand while the other roamed freely about her body, grasping and squeezing painfully. She struggled, rained down blows on him, but he took no notice. She might as well have been beating a marble sculpture, but he wasn't a carved stone angel, was he, he was a man whose cold flesh now blazed with a fire that threatened to burn them both to cinders! She slapped him again, with fingers curved into claws that raked red lines down his jaw. He ripped her dressing gown from her shoulders and tossed it aside. His own followed as he used one hand to hold her fast against him and the other to struggle out of the garment. He bore her kicking down onto the carpet as she fought, biting him on the lip as he kissed her again. He jerked away, swore, and dipped his head like a striking snake to try again. She snatched his mask away and flung it across the room, meeting his eyes in a furious challenge; he snarled and tangled his fingers in her hair to make her head arch back. He bit her neck, hard, and she cried out and scissored her legs about his narrow hips, not sure whether she sought to hurt him or to arouse him. He growled, lowering his mouth to her bare breasts where his lips tugged and his teeth nipped at her.

"Mine," he asserted, dragging his mouth along her flesh, seeming to brand her with its feverish heat. "Mine, mine, and I'll make you see it!"

She didn't know whether she wanted him to do this or not. Oh, she'd meant to induce him to take her again, but not like this! Adrenaline was running rampant through her veins, and flaming lines of sensation raced from his mouth on her nipple down between her legs, making her hips jerk and curve toward him. Was she winning the battle? Was he? It was impossible to tell. She wrenched his head away from her breast and pulled his mouth to hers. His tongue entered her, seeking to claim her. She met it with her own, pushing right back, only to have him growl again in the back of his throat and try to take control once more. He was mightily aroused. So was she, although she didn't fully realise it. She knew only that she wanted to touch him, even as she struggled, as they thrashed to and fro across the floor like a pair of animals, kissing, biting, gripping hard enough to leave bruises. She wrestled with his braces till she could shove them down, ripped his shirt out of his trousers, set her nails in his back and tore.

He jerked her hands away and gathered both her wrists into one of his hands, stretching her arms out over her head, and twist as she might, she could not break his iron grip. She lay exposed beneath him, helpless and vulnerable. He was fumbling with his clothing, and then he shoved it aside, spread her thighs with his knee, and entered her clumsily.

She screamed. It did hurt, but not that much; she'd retained just enough presence of mind to recall that she must act as though he were injuring her dreadfully. She hadn't planned for this to happen this way, but now that it was, she must seize the opportunity to fix this horrible misunderstanding between them. He pulled back and then drove forward again; she screeched like a banshee, and managed to make tears come to her eyes. She rolled her hips, half resisting and half goading him on. He appeared to take it as the latter, and redoubled his assault. She tossed her head, cried out some more, screwed up her face in apparent pain. Through half-lidded eyes, she was aware of him watching her intently as he thrust, and had the muddled thought that this was the performance of her life. Damn him to hell! She'd lied to protect his feelings, and now she had to lie again to clear up the resulting disaster! Her throat began to burn, and yet it was cathartic, really, this freedom to scream out her frustration. Oh, yes, it was!

Her body bucked under him, nearly lifting his up along with hers. He used his free hand to slam one of her thighs flat, and moved even deeper in her. The change in position did something; unbidden, electric tingles began to race through her body. Was this the enjoyment she was supposed to be feeling? It would have to happen now, when she had to pretend to suffer cruelly throughout! She moaned in apparent pain again, as, contrarily, she began to want him to keep on. With every thrust, he was rubbing…touching…brushing against some part of her that ached for more.

She began to realise that this could in fact be pleasurable, thrilling even. She bit his heaving shoulder, sinking her teeth in hard. Her body clutched at his, demanding its own release; and she _couldn't let him know it!_ It must, it must seem as though she were still being hurt by this! And she was, sort of, but paradoxically she was enjoying it, even if the unbelievable irony of being unable to tell him that she hungered for his touch, when the knowledge of that could have pleased him above all else, tugged at her mind relentlessly.

In any case, the whole business was swiftly reaching its end. He was gasping, his body tensing in anticipation. He thrust even harder, and she remembered to howl even as it made her toes curl; once more, twice, and it was all over, with a hoarse cry from Erik and one last ear-splitting shriek from Christine. He collapsed on her, as he had done before, seemingly boneless.

Christine lay there, silent, her arms and legs outstretched, quivering with this strange desire that had not been expected but which now was driving her nearly mad with its going unsatisfied. It was all she could do not to arch up against him, desperate for some contact.

 _Later_ , she told herself. _Later we can do something about…this. He'll want me again, surely, and then we'll…we'll try…_ Her mind faltered, fluttered away. It was too much, just now.

Erik stirred above her, groaned, and then raised himself up and drew away from her. She winced deliberately, and pasted a grimace across her face as they separated.

He propped himself on one elbow again, and put his hand on her cheek. She raised her eyes to look at him.

"You really were a virgin," he said, and it wasn't much of a question.

"I was," she said quietly. "I only told you it didn't hurt because I thought you'd be upset if you knew it had. But it did, it really did. I bit my lip so hard it bled. I had to wipe it on the pillowcase so you wouldn't see."

He was silent for a moment. "I would have been upset," he affirmed. "But I was expecting it. I knew it was supposed to; I wasn't even sure I'd be able to bring myself to touch you, knowing that it must end in hurting you. But then I could not control myself at all, not one bit, and I was appalled afterward by that."

She wondered suddenly if his explosive outburst had been as much because he was ashamed of his own behaviour, as because he suspected her of being unchaste. She didn't dare ask.

"I couldn't control myself just now either," he continued. "I can not believe I just did that to you. I have spent my life determined that I'd never force a woman, and just because I was in a temper, I broke that vow. And to have you be the one who had to suffer my lust – "

She saw the self-loathing begin to twist his already misshapen features, and rushed to stop this new problem in its tracks by saying, "It wasn't force. You spoke the truth; I am your wife, and it's my duty to allow you your rights. You _can't_ force me, by definition."

"That is not the point!" he snapped. "I don't give a damn whether the law allows me to take you whenever I want. That does not make it right. I did not ever want to do this. And I do not want you accepting me out of… _compulsion_." He spoke the last word as though it disgusted him to the core.

"Erik, it's all right, really," Christine insisted, frightened that this would set him off again. "I – I wanted you to, so you would see I was telling the truth." There. It was honesty, but not completely. Enough, perhaps, to soothe his fears?

"But... but I hurt you," he continued. "I mean – beyond the – I was violent and out of control. Look, you have bruises."

"So do you," she said with a smile. "I think I gave as good as I got. Look, here... and here, and here." She touched the scratches on his jaw and throat, the long red lines down his back, the bite mark on his shoulder.

"No…I _did_ hurt you. You are bleeding."

Christine glanced down in the direction of his gaze, and saw a bit of blood on her inner thigh. "Well…I suppose that's because…I'm not used to this." She had a moment's resentful wondering why she could not have bled noticeably to begin with, and saved all the trouble; stammering, she added hastily, "And this was rougher-I mean, faster than-you didn't wait to-" There was no good way to say any of it. "It was _different_ this time." There, that was the very best she could manage.

There was a tense moment of silence, and then he exhaled a long breath and replied, "I suppose so."

A rush of relief flooded through her veins, bringing a tingling euphoria. He believed her.

Erik ran his hand over her cheek again, and then through her hair. "I really didn't force you?" he asked plaintively, and she sensed how much he wanted to be reassured. He sounded like a small boy.

"You really didn't," she echoed, then recalled something. "You saw how I was dressed… or, _not_ dressed… when this started. Does that not tell you that I wanted this? You are my husband, and I _am_ your wife." She searched his face worriedly with her eyes, praying that that would be enough. It seemed it was, for he sighed and lay down again, put his head against her shoulder. She let her breath out slowly, relieved.

O-O-O

That had been the last time, thought Christine, sponging her back, that her husband had not attempted to see to her pleasure.

O-O-O O-O-O


	13. Chapter 13

Thank you again to all those who are continuing to read this. M rating ahead... although so was the last chapter.

It's extremely common in POTO fanfiction to have Erik, with his Oriental travels, making use of books like the _Kama Sutra_. I decided to explore what Christine's feelings might be about that.

 _Chapter 13. April, 1887. First weeks of marriage._

That night, there had been no further encounters, as he had assured her that a gentleman knew how to let his wife rest – much to the wife's disappointment, though she did not have the courage to tell him so. But the very next morning she'd seen the desire flickering silently in his eyes as she got out of bed in the morning…and she'd gotten back in. They'd embarked on another attempt, this one shy and fumbling, with both of them afraid of what the other might think. But his obvious ecstasy when touching her had made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, and she had found herself enjoying the sensation of his hands sliding over her, awkward and inexperienced though his caresses were. And it had, indeed, been better that time, and had continued to improve thereafter. Not immediately, and certainly not easily, but little by little they'd each learned the way of each other's bodies. Erik had now been able to control his own desires enough to attempt, tentatively and fearfully, to please her. His timid efforts had touched her heart, and she'd opened gladly to him. He'd seemed shocked, and she certainly had been, by the depth of her response to his hands, and, eventually, to his mouth; before that last had happened, however, she'd risen early from a late afternoon nap and caught him studiously looking through a book the like of which she'd had no idea existed.

"Erik, what is that?"

He clapped the book shut and whirled around. "What do you think you are about, Christine, sneaking up on me like that?"

"If I am getting better at sneaking, who do you think I would have learned that from?" she rejoined. "But it's not like you at all to be so engrossed in something that you don't hear me coming. What was it that held your attention that much?"

"Nothing," he said, looking as forbidding as possible as he kept his arm carefully over the book. "Leave me alone, please."

"But I want to see."

"No."

"Please?"

"No. This is not an appropriate book for ladies to read."

"I'm not a lady, I'm an actress. Why don't you want me to see?"

"Because."

All this was only having the effect of making her even more curious. She advanced on him, and he backed up and straight into a corner. Erik being Erik, he could certainly have escaped past her if he'd tried, but instead he seemed strangely frozen in place as she came closer and closer. Taking advantage, she stretched her arms up around his neck and kissed him, and he responded eagerly – till she snatched the book out of his relaxing fingers.

"Christine!" Erik made a grab for her and got his hand on her arm. This had the unfortunate effect of making her drop the book, which helpfully fell open to a particularly… _interesting_ illustration.

Christine made a strangled sound, staring. Erik cleared his throat. His hand loosened on her arm. Neither said anything for a moment. Then Christine pulled away from her husband's slack grasp, and bent to pick up the book; its title read, " _The Book of Oriental Love_ , translated by Isidore Lisieux." As she rose back up, she gazed at it in stupefaction.

"Erik…"

She chanced a glance at him, and saw that his distorted face was crimson with mortification. Christine thought briefly of saying something, but her attention was drawn irresistibly back to this astonishing book. She paged slowly through it, gasping a little from time to time.

"Erik…I didn't know that there were books like this! Wh – why?"

"It…it is a translation of an Oriental work," he said, his voice sounding more constrained than she'd ever heard it.

"But…what is it for?"

"It is for…a man with a…lover to…learn more of the…possibilities."

Christine had never seen her erudite Erik so tongue-tied. It would have been amusing, had he not looked so honestly distressed. He rubbed the side of one shoe along the carpet, and muttered, "I…hope you do not think badly of me for…reading such a book. Many women would be…repulsed. It is hardly a gentlemanly thing to do, but I wanted…I wanted to…" He trailed off, and she waited for a minute and then prompted, "Wanted to what?"

"Wanted to learn how to…please you."

"Oh. But…you do please me."

"I meant…better," he mumbled, staring down and not meeting her eyes.

She was touched, and put a hand on his arm. He covered it with his own, and said quietly, "I know that I am not anything that…I am no prize for a woman. Especially one as young and beautiful as you. I thought that perhaps…if I could please you, really please you in ways that other men would not…it might be some compensation for you."

"Oh, Erik." She pressed herself against him, wrapping her arms around his thin back – but not letting go of the book. "You can be so sweet at times."

"That word has never been applied to Erik before," he said. His cheek had been against the top of her head, but now he turned his head and pressed a kiss to her temple, then her hair. "I love you, my Christine."

"And I love you," she replied, squinting over his shoulder as she tried to catch another glimpse of the open pages, "You are a prize, to me. Why don't you go and play something on the piano? You know I love your music."

"At least I have that to give you," he answered. He watched her walk over and place the book on a side table, and then did as she had asked and went to the piano. Once he was seated on its bench with his back safely to her, she sat down on the couch, leaned over and snatched the book, and rapidly paged through it under cover of the music, trying to keep one eye on Erik in case he turned around. But soon she was absorbed enough to turn her full attention to the fascinating…artwork, and explanations, so that she nearly jumped out of her skin when Erik barked, "Christine!"

Now it was her turn to clap the book shut. She hadn't even noticed that the music had stopped.

"If you are all that interested, there is another book of the same type over there on the bookshelf." He indicated with a sternly pointed finger. "But it is one of Monsieur Richard Burton's, so it is in English, which you can not read. Would you like me to translate for you? I warn you the illustrations are not as good."

Blushing furiously, Christine pressed herself back into the couch, wishing to disappear into it.

He stayed on the piano bench for a minute in silence, and then gave a resigned sigh and got up. "All right. Enough of this nonsense, from both of us. If you want to read that so badly, we shall sit down and do so, and then we can at least be mortified together." He took the other book, which she had not noticed, off the shelf. "We may as well do the job completely. But I am getting some wine to help us through this process."

The wine did help, especially once they were each on their second glass, and Christine began to ask questions more easily. Erik could not enlighten her about all of them, having no more experience in this particular field than her, but he could and did expound upon the origins of the books.

"These are compilations of writings by various Indian authors from around 800 B.C. They were collected and edited by a Hindu philosopher – that means he was Indian, Christine – named Vatsyayana sometime in the centuries immediately after the birth of Christ. Without him, they would likely have faded into obscurity. Very little is known about him, but he is believed to have lived between the sixth and first centuries before Christ – "

Erik went into a long monologue about the history of the text, and Christine quickly stopped listening. When she failed to answer a question, he stopped himself and said ruefully, "My apologies. I am boring you. Suffice it to say that this text has only become available in Europe in recent years."

Christine turned the English work over, wishing she could read it. There were still the illustrations, though; even if Erik didn't like them as much as the ones in the other book, they were adequately informative…

"That was translated and published by an Englishman named Richard Burton. He is an intrepid explorer, and has travelled extensively; when you are paying attention to your husband again I shall tell you about him. I think you would like the tales of his adventures."

She dragged her eyes away from the page. "I am sure I would."

"He is thought to be the first European to have made the _hajj_ ; that is the sacred pilgrimage to the city of Mecca which all devout Muslims must take."

"Did you ever do it?"

He chuckled. "No. I had other things to do. Shahs and sultans required my presence at their courts, my skills in creating amusements for them, and I could not have been gone long enough to make that trek. And I was not much interested in it, in any case. I felt no impulse toward taking up that religion."

She was grateful that he had not become a heathen during his long years in the East, but did not say so. He went on, "I enjoyed the sound of the calls to prayer, some of the artwork. Things like that. But that was as far as it went."

"Calls to prayer?" she said, puzzled.

"Yes. A Muslim must pray five times a day, and in the cities a man is appointed to call loudly from each mosque to get everyone's attention and bring them in to perform their religious duty. It is a remarkable sound."

"Like…church bells?"

"Yes, somewhat like that."

"But…" She glanced back at the book, forgetting completely what she had been going to say. Oriental history was not nearly as interesting as Oriental literature…could this book be called 'literature'?

"It is all so…strange," she murmured.

"The Orient is a very different place from Europe, Christine."

"So I see," she murmured. She turned a page, and stared. There were a number of small drawings on it, all illustrating possible variations on the same theme.

"Erik…" He said nothing, and when Christine glanced up at him, he was taking a large gulp of wine and studiedly not looking at her. That looked like a fine idea, and she imitated him. The wine warmed her, and made everything seem comfortingly far away. Surely it could not be real, could it, that she could be sitting in an underground house with this strange man who was her husband, and reading a book like… _this_? Her eyes went back to the page, and she tilted her head, trying to make sense of what exactly the woman in the drawings was doing with her mouth. She'd heard of this particular act, when the other chorus girls whispered darkly in corridors about how far they were willing to 'go,' and had thought it revolting, then. And so it would have been, for her, with a man to whom she was not married.

But…she was married now…and it was the wife's duty to fulfil her husband's desires…and she had always been curious to a fault.

"Erik…did you…would you…I mean…"

He chanced a cautious glance at what she was looking at, and immediately poured himself more wine. She held her own glass out, not looking at him and blushing hotly. He refilled hers too, and she took a deep, sustaining swallow.

Erik took one too, and then grimaced and complained, "This is a dreadful way to treat a good wine."

"Then you should have brought out a second-rate one," she said hoarsely, coughing.

"Erik does not have _second-rate_ wines, Christine."

She giggled unsteadily. That was such an Erik thing to say. Her head was fogged by the wine, and that made it easier to peer at the book again while he was watching her. She raised her eyes to his questioningly, and he made an attempt at an answer.

"Christine, Erik would never demand that you…He would never insist that you do anything which you do not want to. You have already given him far more than he deserves."

"Well, I – I don't know whether I'd want to," she said clumsily. Her mouth didn't seem to be working terribly well, which might make matters a bit difficult, should they actually try this. "We're…married, but…I've never – "

"Of course you haven't. I did not doubt you." He had been very careful, after that first hellish argument, not to appear to think she possessed more knowledge than she did.

"Have you?" The words slipped out before she could stop them, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. She heard him chuckle low in his throat, and the sound made her body feel very warm. She found she greatly disliked the idea of any other woman having performed such an act on him.

"Of course not. Your Erik was as virginal as you were, Christine, remember? Injurious to his pride though it is to admit it." Then his voice changed from amused, to cynical, as he added, "No woman would have allowed Erik's hideous mouth anywhere near her, either in that fashion or any other."

"Wait, this can be – for women too?" This section didn't show that. She turned a few pages, and sure enough, there was an illustration with the man and woman's positions reversed.

"Is that not what you were asking?" said Erik, sounding alarmed.

"No, I wasn't!" Her embarrassment had made her words more vehement than her feelings would have required. He tensed beside her, and drained his wine glass.

"Of course you were not," he said acidly. "As I said, Erik's mouth is far too repulsive for such an act."

His tone frightened her a little, and she gathered her wine-addled wits and said, "Erik, your mouth doesn't disgust me."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said sharply, irritated. She was sick of this particular topic of conversation already, and they'd only been married for a few weeks. "Don't I like it when you kiss me, now?" Their eyes locked, and she wondered if he were thinking of the same thing she were; the deep drugging kisses they had exchanged when locked in that most intimate of embraces, of the adoring kisses he'd lavished on her breasts and her throat and her hands…and of the few, hasty kisses he'd pressed to _that_ part of her body, before shying away and moving up over her to take her. She hadn't thought anything of it, at the time, but, perhaps…had he been afraid she would not like it if he tried anything further?

The part of her in question was beginning to take an interest in the discussion, and her nipples were prickling. The wine had made her mouth dry, and she licked her lips. When she saw the expression in Erik's eyes at that, she swallowed hard, and said hoarsely, "Kiss me."

There was a quick flash of even stronger passion in the yellow eyes, and then he leaned forward to her, and she clutched at his coat lapel with her free hand. She was significantly more aroused than she had been thus far, and all she could think about was the merging of their bodies, and the freedom she had now to enjoy it. Their teeth scraped together, his tongue was moving hesitantly against hers…and her fingers loosened and let the wine glass fall.

They jerked apart with a mutual exclamation as the red liquid spilled onto her skirt, and the glass hit the carpet and rolled away, fortunately not breaking. Christine held out her dress in dismay.

"This will probably not come out. It's a good thing it is just a house dress. Oh, and it's soaking into my petticoats and everything!"

"Then perhaps you had better…take them off," said Erik. There was a throbbing, sultry note in his voice that made her raise her head with a jerk and make eye contact with him. And then she could not look away.

"It's – " She faltered, and then tried again. "It's…gone through most of the layers. Should I…take everything off?" How was it possible that she was being so wanton? Neither of them was really concerned in the slightest about her dress.

"If you like." His tone was carefully nonchalant, but he could not control his eyes nearly so well, and Christine had no trouble discerning what he wanted. And seeing how much he desired her made her own desire grow. Body tingling pleasantly, she began to undo the buttons of her bodice.

Erik's eyes went wide with surprise, and she realised he hadn't expected her to begin disrobing right in front of him. Her hands grew clumsy with embarrassment. But…he'd stripped her clothes off her himself several times by now, and he'd certainly liked _that_. She supposed it was a bit…forward to be doing this in the parlour, but then it wasn't as if there were anyone else here, and he _was_ her husband after all… Her head was spinning from all the wine, her body felt heated and achy, and she wanted her clothes off. Shy though she still was at this point, by now she also knew the pleasure that intimacy could bring, and her eyes fell on Erik's hands.

His hands were those of a magician. Thin, skeletal, and with those abnormally long fingers, they could perform the most amazing of tricks, build the greatest of inventions, draw music from instruments far beyond what any other musician could do. They had lacked but one skill, and now he had begun to learn it as well. He had managed, the fifth time they engaged in marital relations, three days after the violent episode in the parlour – oh, God, that was the last time they'd done it in here, wasn't it? Christine did not want to think about that right now – to bring her crisis about. She had not quite been expecting it, and the spasms of unforeseen pleasure that suddenly overwhelmed her had made her cry out in surprise and passion, clutching desperately at his arm. When she had finally been able to open her eyes, she had been amazed at how thrilled he was at his success – and he had insisted on practising again and again since then. He was an astoundingly swift learner, and his skill had grown in leaps and bounds. Thinking of this, she ran her gaze eagerly up and down his hands, the tendons standing out on the backs of them as he gripped handfuls of the upholstery, his gaze fastened hungrily on her. He had been sitting in the corner of the couch, and now he was pressed back against it as though he needed the support, staring silently at her as though his world had narrowed to her alone.

It was a heady thing, this power she had over him. Emboldened, she closed her eyes and found the courage to arch her back and let her head fall to the side as she took her bodice off, so that her breasts swelled up above her corset. Her chemise came up only an inch or so above its upper edge, and nearly the whole of her ample cleavage was thus exposed. Up until her marriage, her figure had been merely something to enjoy, in the way that it showed off a smart gown to best advantage; she had not grasped just how it would make her feel to know that a man, and a man whom she…desired…desired her as well.

She heard him inhale sharply, and opened her eyes. Yes, he desired her all right. That was plain to be seen, with her newly acquired knowledge of this business. She quailed a little, and looked away and down, unhooking her skirt and petticoat waistbands. She was not wearing a bustle, and it was easiest to simply shove the whole lot off all at once. Erik began to twist his handfuls of cushion back and forth, his fingers clenching and unclenching. Still he said nothing.

Christine wondered just how far she could push him, and raised her arms over her head to pull the pins out of her hair. It fell down her back all at once, a glorious thick mane of golden curls that she took great pride in. She shook it out, rolling her head from side to side with her mouth slightly open, and heard Erik mutter something hoarsely in some foreign language. He sounded as though he were thoroughly out of breath, which almost never happened.

She looked at him again, seeing the tension obvious in every line of his body, and finally went to him. As she bent over him, intending to kiss him, his control seemed to suddenly snap, and he seized her. He kissed her hard, his mouth fervent and demanding, and she fell halfway into his lap. She was in an awkward position, her legs bent uncomfortably, but he didn't seem to care as he reached for her breasts.

"Ohhhh," she groaned as she felt his cold hands on her, sliding inside her corset and gathering the soft flesh up in his fingers.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered back, and the passion in his timbre vanquished a good deal of what was left of her timidity. She reached out with her own hand, and hot flashes of desire went through her when she felt the evidence of what she had done to him. Now it was his turn to groan, as she undid his trouser buttons and slid her fingers inside, pushing the long tail of his shirt out of her way. He pressed his forehead hard against her shoulder, and she heard him grind his teeth as she squeezed experimentally, trying to remember the images in the book. Her other hand went to his throat, and began undoing his tie and collar.

It was not the first time she had touched him in such a fashion; in fact she had on several occasions before, fascinated by this most alien and changeable part of him, which had, by her own permission, pierced her to the core and stripped away her virginity, hurt her badly but then, incredibly, begun to bring her pleasure. The sheer contradiction of it was remarkable. She had never quite believed what she had heard of the vaunted joys of the marriage bed; but then, this was a thing which, it seemed, really had to be experienced to be believed. It had taken some time, but she understood now, and it seemed there were far more ways to bring one's partner pleasure than she'd thought. And if he could do so to her with his hands, so could she, to him.

Erik, however, had other ideas, and abruptly pulled her hand away. She made a disappointed sound, and he groaned, "If you do not stop while you are ahead, Christine, this will be over very quickly."

"Oh."

"Yes, 'oh,' " he answered, pulling at her corset laces, "Far too quickly for your pleasure, my love. Let me try to…" He undid the heavy metal clasps down the front of her corset; the middle one, the one which was always the most difficult, stuck, and he swore fiercely, loosened her laces a little more, and finally succeeded in getting it open. Her breasts bobbed free under her chemise. He hurled her corset violently away, moved her aside and stood up, and began taking off his own clothing, as fast as possible. She bit her lower lip anxiously. The situation had gotten rather out of hand…but Erik looked particularly single-minded, and she didn't want to question her husband.

It was evening now, and there was a fire snapping and crackling in the hearth. Christine went and turned the lights down, so it would be as dim in the underground house as it presumably was outside. Doing this in bright light seemed a bit…well, unromantic. She was also somewhat nervous at the wanton idea of being in the parlour to do it, and dimmer light was less intimidating.

He pulled her hard against his bare chest, and kissed her till she was dizzy, and her chemise and drawers were gone before she knew what was happening. His skin warmed against hers; his arms were tight and possessive around her. She felt out of breath, as events rushed ahead. Erik kneeled before her and took off her slippers, and then drew her down beside him. As they lay down on the hearth rug, he ran his hands up and down her stocking-clad calves, and then removed the stockings, the last things that were keeping him from her skin. He caressed her reverently, murmuring words of love and desire, and as the bliss of his touch and the beauty of his voice took hold of her, she stopped quivering with embarrassment, and began to shudder with desire instead. Silken, beguiling, his smooth timbre made every inch of her body tingle, and her fears seem very far away.

"Christine, Christine, my beautiful Christine…I love you…" Without warning his hand slid between her legs and stroked her in just the right way. He was kissing her breasts, and his divine voice was still winding about her captivatingly. He could do both at the same time, because he was the greatest ventriloquist in the world, and, misshapen or not, his mouth was magical…his mouth…

"Oh…" A moan escaped her own lips as she recalled the last section of the book they had been looking at. A strong surge of desire swept over her, washing away her few remaining inhibitions. Head spinning with wine and enchantment, body burning with need, she put her hands on his shoulders and shoved.

"Christine…is _that_ what you want?" His voice sounded overjoyed and overwhelmed all at once.

"I said I don't find your mouth disgusting," she mumbled, with a vague muddled thought that this request from her might heal his self-loathing. "In fact…when we read your book…" He made an astonished, exultant sound in his throat, and pressed kisses all over her thighs, worshipful and frantic and oh, so thrilling. She let them fall open.

A mutual madness seized them both then, and made the awkwardness of that first time bearable. Neither had any experience whatever with this particular act. Erik had gained the knowledge by now of what pleased Christine when he touched her with his hands, and initially he tried to perform similar movements. But this was not really the same, and he made many wrong moves. Small fragments of unease floated through Christine's mind intermittently and made her ardour momentarily cool. There were several stops and starts, apologies and reassurances, but finally he discovered a method and a rhythm that made her gasp with delight, her legs trembling and her hands clutching at the Oriental rug underneath them, as the heated tension spiralled inward.

Christine was overcome with a gathering voluptuousness, her muscles tightening further and further, till she cried out as a swell of pure physical joy burst over her, spreading out in a wave from her core and through her whole body, so that even her fingers and toes tingled deliciously as it gradually, pleasurably receded and left her sprawled on the floor, unable to move in the slightest.

O-O-O O-O-O


	14. Chapter 14

Hello all,

Sorry for the couple-of-weeks hiatus in posting; real life got very busy. Hopefully this chapter makes up for it.

 _Chapter 14. April, 1887. First weeks of marriage._

She was dimly aware of Erik lying motionless between her thighs, propped on his elbows with his hands still cupping her hips. He made an inquiring noise, but she was not capable of answering with anything other than a sigh. One of his hands stole upward, and wove itself into hers. She twitched her fingers in reply.

"Well?" he asked softly. "It was all right? You…enjoyed that?"

She mustered the ability to nod, and then managed to turn her head a bit, and pull on his hand. He understood, and rose up over her. When they joined, it somehow felt more sensuous than usual, and she moaned and shivered with rapture, her hips beginning to arch to him again uncontrollably as the madness took over once more. He moved with her, within her, pressing kisses all over her face and neck. Words of reverent gratitude and love were sung in her ear, and his golden voice increased her arousal again, to such an extent that before long she was crying out and thrashing under him, caught up in the frenzied release of passion a second time. There was nothing in the world except the two of them, made one flesh, and Erik's sudden helpless moan as he gave himself up to his own crisis, so that she could not tell which of them it was whose limbs spasmed and whose flesh quivered.

He buried his face in her hair and trembled, gasping, and she thought perhaps he wept a little, as she held his head against her with what strength she had left. They lay locked together for some time, not speaking but feeling the bond between them, and vaguely sensing how powerful it really was. The fire crackled quietly to itself, and their chests rose and fell as one, mimicking their other, greater connection.

But eventually they had to separate, and Christine's mind returned to normal, shaking off the effects of wine and passion both. And she was appalled by her conduct. She made a small sound of distress, and Erik raised his head immediately.

"What is the matter?"

"Oh…what have we done?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm…sorry…oh, what must you think of me!"

"Christine, I think that you have made me the happiest man on earth. Why do you look so upset?"

"You don't mind what – what I made you do?" she begged, clutching his arm. "Oh, I don't know what came over me!"

He looked thoroughly baffled. "What is wrong?"

She couldn't refuse to answer him, much as she wanted to. "Well, the things in that book…"

There was a long pause, until he realised she wasn't going to finish her sentence, and said, "Yes?"

"Are they – do you think they are…sinful?"

Erik didn't seem to have been expecting that. Instead, he looked very taken aback, and sat up, running a hand over his hair slowly as though he were trying to gather his thoughts. "Ah…I suppose the Church might say so. I really do not know what their current stance is; I have not bothered to pay attention to anything they've said or done in decades. But – " He appeared to be thinking quite hard. "If one wanted to look at what the Bible itself says, I believe that in Hebrews it states that 'marriage is honourable in all, and the marriage bed is undefiled.' Corinthians says that husbands and wives are not to deny each other except for purposes of prayer. And…the Song of Solomon definitely speaks of…well, of kissing parts of the body other than the mouth. And kissing is not sinful, is it?"

"No. But…that was not what we normally…do."

"Normally?" he answered, raising what passed for one of his eyebrows. "A good many things are now _normal_ for us, when they were not, before." He took her left hand, and stroked his thumb deliberately over her wedding ring. "Hmmm?"

"Yes, I – I suppose so."

"And we are married. A great many things are no longer sinful, which would have been, before."

"Yes."

"Well then. I vowed to love you and take care of you. And I wish to please you more than anything in the world. If you indicate to me what you want, then you shall have it – to the best of Erik's very limited abilities, that is."

"They're not limited. Not…anymore, anyway."

"Am I to take that as a compliment?" he asked, sounding thoroughly pleased with himself. She blushed brightly, but could not lie.

"Y – yes."

"You enjoyed it?" He was still holding her hand, but tightly now.

"Yes," she whispered. Erik exhaled slowly, with a relieved air.

"To be allowed to please you – in any way – is the greatest gift imaginable," he said softly. "Worthy of the greatest sacrifice."

A new and unpleasant thought struck her, and she asked, cringing, "Did you…mind it, then?" How on earth did one talk of such things?

"No! I – " He hesitated, then said firmly, "No." She waited for him to continue, but he did not. He looked as though he were finding this conversation almost as uncomfortable as she was.

"Oh," she said, somewhat reassured, and decided she didn't really want to know what had been going through his mind just then. She would change the subject a bit.

"How do you know those parts of the Bible well enough to quote them?"

He appeared very abashed, and said, "I have read them many times."

"Oh." She bit her lip. He looked so shamefaced that she reached out and laid a comforting hand on his arm. "Erik…"

"In my youth I spent a good deal of time wondering about God, Christine. I read the Bible, and a large number of other religious texts, repeatedly, looking for…answers."

"About what?"

"Myself," he said bleakly. "And I found…nothing. Well…nothing reassuring, at least." Then he went silent. Christine wondered whether she ought to push him to talk some more about this, and decided against it. She was encouraged by the revelation that he had, even a long time ago, considered God, and tried to read the Bible. He must have just not read it properly, or not with the right mindset, surely. Christine had believed for some time that God would readily welcome this particular wayward soul back if Erik could be brought to that point, and had been debating how best to raise the subject of religion in a manner which would not result in his pushing back against her. She knew that he considered his own existence to be a cruel joke on God's part and resented Him greatly for it, and that he had felt that way for the better part of his life. Bringing him back to the Church was not going to be an easy task, but it had to be done. And as his wife it was her job to do so.

But taking an action which made him dig in his heels would only make it harder to convince him. So she let the subject drop for now, and tugged at his arm till he turned to look at her. She drew him down to her again, and kissed him. He sighed into her mouth, and cupped her cheek in one hand. When they parted, he asked quietly, "Do you think it a sin to do this with me, then?"

"No!" she exclaimed, startled. "Why would I? We are married."

His mouth twisted sadly. "But…how can you bear me? _How?_ This face…how can you kiss me, share this.. intimacy…with me?"

"Because I love you, and you are my husband. And you are not – unbearable, to me." She wondered if he had been worrying about this for a while. Probably. It was just like him not to say anything to her, and instead fret silently till he made his anxiety worse than it would have been otherwise.

He kissed her lips again, with great tenderness, and then did the same to her breasts before he drew away and let his hand drift over them. "I fantasized so much about this," he said. "With you, I mean. But in my saner moments, I was sure that you could never feel anything but revulsion for the idea. No woman could."

"But that's not what happened. I'm not revolted."

"I can not understand why," he answered, shaking his head and beginning to look melancholy again. "I wonder, sometimes…if you are only playing along, out of kindness."

"That's not true!" she snapped, insulted. "How can you think that, after what we've just-"

"Christine, I do not want to think it, but…I know what I look like," he insisted, pulling away from her and sitting up. He rested his forehead on one palm. "I look in the mirror, and I can not begin to understand why you have accepted me into your bed. It makes no sense. Why you are not disgusted when I kiss you…" He raised his head again, and, turning on her, said bitterly, "I find my own mouth hideous. Why don't you?"

"I do not find your mouth so, it is just…your mouth. You can not help what it looks like," she said, and sat up herself, to reassure both of them with more kisses. He responded gratefully, and after a bit, he relaxed into her arms. They sank back down onto the carpet, exchanging slow, tender caresses, entwining their limbs and sighing softly in open enjoyment of each other's touch. In an unanticipated way, there was a greater intimacy between them now then there had been before, and she could not be as easily embarrassed.

"Christine…"

"Hmmm?"

"There are other things in that book, things which are not technically, ah, sexual union but which are still…"

"Still what?" Her curiosity was piqued.

"Still pleasurable, I suppose you could say. Ways of embracing, or of caressing…of massage."

He sounded a bit too casual, and she wondered if he were trying to discern whether she might like such a thing, rather than make himself vulnerable by asking outright. She glanced over at his hands, their long fingers twitching with unease. Being massaged by them was an intriguing idea.

"That sounds nice," she said, trying to sound encouraging. Apparently she did, because he sat up and gently turned her onto her stomach. A brief dart of self-consciousness made her tense, but then he set his love-warmed hands cautiously on her and she forgot about it.

Thin, bony, but strong and forceful just the same, his calloused musician's fingertips rubbed small circles over her shoulder blades and down her spine, pressed hard here and gently there, stroked firmly up and down, and in no time at all she was purring with unexpected ecstasy. The knots in her muscles she hadn't known were there dissolved under his wonderful hands, and his initial uncertainty swiftly changed to confidence as he saw that his efforts were pleasing her.

With her face turned away from him, she felt free to think again of what they had just done. She had been so embarrassed…but he'd said he didn't mind…and his ardour hadn't been affected in the slightest. Quite the opposite, his release had come very quickly. A good thing she'd found hers swiftly again as well, once he took her…it had seemed effortless, in fact. She found herself wondering if, or when, he would do… _that_ again.

Gradually, the thought occurred to Christine that the next time, in fairness it would be her turn to reciprocate. She thought of how moved he was when she attempted to pleasure him with her hand, and of how much power she seemed to have over him at such times. She had been utterly under _his_ power when he pleasured her with his mouth. She thought of having him so, to her…her fierce, all-powerful maestro writhing under her ministrations, conquered by nothing more than a kiss from her…well, maybe a number of kisses, in that situation. And other sorts of caresses too, she reminded herself as she recalled the images in the book. Would he beg her for mercy, perhaps? What a strange thing to think of doing to someone, and yet…he had done it for her. Would he enjoy it, himself?

It felt so good to have him inside her. Maybe she could think of the other kind of act as merely…expressing appreciation? And no doubt he'd want to have her again as soon as she concluded her attentions… A warmly eager feeling took hold of her, and desire gradually blossomed once more.

Erik's hands finally ended up on the small of her back, and when he ceased massaging her, his fingers stilled on her skin for a moment, and then slowly slid farther. They rested on the curve of her backside briefly, then glided down over the backs of her thighs.

Christine sighed with pleasure, and then rolled to face him. He lay down next to her, so that they could take each other into an embrace, and he began to stroke her hair, winding his fingers through it and watching the curls spring back. She reached down between them, and felt his flesh quicken under her hand. There must have been an expression of intent on her face, because when he turned his head to her, he looked surprised.

In the event, she did not perform a similar courtesy upon him as he had done to her. That would come later. This time, after they fondled each other for a time Erik rolled suddenly to his back, and drew her on top of him. She had seen images of this position in his book, but hadn't expected him to try it tonight, and was clumsy as she tried to situate herself.

"I want to see you find ecstasy this way," he breathed, and manoeuvred both of them so that he could slide into her. A look of bliss settled over his twisted features, and he kept his hands on the curve of her hips, stroking gently with his thumbs. "I was thinking of it, while you were sleeping…I believed you would be more lovely than ever like this, and I was right."

He drew her up, then back down again, and she quaked with delight at the sensation. In this posture, he felt different inside her, excited her in new ways. And it _was_ exciting to be the one in control, after all. They rocked together as the light of the dying fire played over them, sighing rapturously, caressing wherever they could reach, and journeyed as one to a mutual oblivion.

O-O-O O-O-O


	15. Chapter 15

Hello all,

I'm sorry it's been so long since I last posted. Hopefully I can get back on track now. Thanks for sticking with this story!

A quick comment: in the nineteenth century, people had not the slightest notion that it was not a smart idea to drink alcohol while pregnant.

 _Chapter 15. July, 1887. Friday (continued)._

In the bathtub, Christine sat up abruptly as the memories of that night replayed in her mind. Had that been the night when their child had been created? It had been about the right time. That would be…quite poignant if it were true, she thought, recalling the feeling of complete abandonment as they writhed on the rug, thinking of nothing but each other and the sensual joy of coupling. But there was no real way to know. It could have been the previous morning instead, or the next night, or the afternoon after that. Surely Erik would not be surprised that she was pregnant so soon, after the hedonistic manner in which they had come to conduct themselves? After Christine's discovery of those books, they had practised their precepts diligently. Perhaps he was even hoping she would soon have good news for him? Oh, he'd said nothing about it, of course, but no doubt he did not want to make her feel pressured. How much she would enjoy telling him that his wish was to come true.

Christine was finished washing now, but she wasn't quite ready to get out of the tub. She relaxed back against the marble, happy and excited about the baby and wishing Erik was with her right now; all that thinking about the beginning of their intimacies had left her very much aroused. Once he left his composing, she would put off the revelation about her condition for a half hour or so, if it even took that long after three days… She rubbed her hand over her hardened nipples, and then down her thighs, thinking of how wonderful it felt to have his mouth on her. Malformed though it was, now he could bring her to climax after climax that way. Lately, he'd wondered aloud just how many she was capable of at one time, and seemed disposed to test that. Perhaps tonight he might try again…

Her hand wandered between her legs, as she also recalled the feeling of him in her, thrusting deep to touch that spot so far within her that drove her to screaming, writhing ecstasy. And when he used his voice to arouse her passions even further…

She cupped herself and rubbed lightly, as the music from the other room helpfully reached a section of particularly erotic melodies that wound around her and increased her passion. One finger stroked faster, pressed harder, till release shivered over her and left her gasping, and wanting him very much. Oh, well. This would suffice, till she could carry out the rest of her plans for this evening. She wasn't the least bit worried that this little interlude would prevent her from enjoying a marital union later on; in fact, it was usually easier for her to have successive climaxes after the first one. But then, it wasn't as if it was ever really difficult, not anymore. And it was even nicer with her husband than by herself.

She sighed deeply, and got out of the tub. After drying off, she went into the bedroom and surveyed her wardrobe. What gown would best show off her charms to her husband?

Low-necked, definitely. And trained; he liked trains on women. He'd remarked once that "there was such a come-hither element about a train flicking round a corner." Perhaps…hmmm…perhaps the blue velvet, then, with its trailing overskirt looped up around the hips with black silk cords? Its colour was most becoming. But it would look so much better, if only…

Bustles were in fashion, and with a vengeance, bigger and bolder than the ones of fifteen or so years ago. They were in all the fashion magazines, and displayed in the windows of both the small dressmaker's shops and the big department stores. Deemed to set off the carriage of the back, their angular, squared-off bulge was a part of the design of most stylish gowns, their elaborate skirts deliberately draped to show it off to the utmost. Unfortunately for his fashion-minded wife, however, Erik cordially hated bustles. He bemoaned the demise of the sophisticated, slim lines of the late seventies with their elegantly moulded bodices and trailing trains which flowed out from behind the knee, released there from the internal ties that held them firmly to the figure higher up. Christine believed privately that he had preferred them because they showed off far more of a woman's body than the current styles, and Erik appreciated few worldly things more than a beautiful female, for all that he'd never been able to so much as kiss the hand of one till now. Christine thought it a very good thing that those dresses were out of fashion, and recalled Mama Valerius' diatribes against the indecency of them. Poor Mama, with the matronly figure she had had at that time, would not have been flattered by a "tied-back" dress even if she had been inclined to wear it. Perhaps it was her guardian's refusal to let her wear fashionable clothes as a young teenage girl, in fact, that made Christine now wish to dress in them as much as possible.

But, she thought, looking ruefully at her options for the evening, Erik had been sure that his future bride would share his aesthetic tastes, and had therefore had all the dresses which he had waiting for her when he first brought her to his home made to be worn without a bustle. And he did not want her to have any new ones made which would accommodate one.

"There is nothing more ridiculous, Christine, than a woman walking about in a gown on which she could balance a fully laden tea-tray. No, you may not have a dress like that."

Oh, well. She mostly wore the day dresses she had already had in her possession at her marriage when she went out in public; they were relatively new and stylish. But tonight it was Erik whose approval she wanted. Resignedly she reached for the blue velvet. It was trimmed with gold and silver ribbon around the low neckline, and went over a gold brocade underskirt, puffed and trimmed with more of the same ribbon. He liked her in blue. And he'd certainly appreciate the neckline of that dress. It was cut just about as low as it could possibly be and not show her corset.

She put on fresh drawers, chemise and stockings, picking her prettiest and finest things. Corset; she selected a satin evening one that she knew for a fact her husband liked. Why, the last time she'd worn it…she shoved that thought away and hooked up the busk, turning to look in the mirror as she pulled up the laces. Corset cover; better pick a low-necked one or it would show above the bodice. All right.

She put on two of her fanciest lace-trimmed petticoats, and reached for the underskirt of the dress. The rustling silk slid over her petticoats and settled into place as she did up the hooks. All right, now the velvet overskirt. Then the bodice. She slid her arms into the long sleeves, with their black silk pleats and white lace at the cuffs, and did up all the tiny pearl buttons.

Christine inspected herself in the mirror, and was gratified. Erik would like this, certainly. She'd leave her hair down. It wasn't appropriate for someone her age, and certainly not for a married woman, but there was no one to see her down here but her husband, and he adored it that way. So, there remained only to put on some jewellery, perhaps the diamonds he had bought her; yes, they would look wonderful. She spread powder over her skin, and reached for a bottle of perfume, but stopped, her hand in midair. No…not that one. _This_ one. After applying it carefully, she then recorked the bottle with a decisive gesture, took up a fan, and went out of the bedroom.

O-O-O

Back to the kitchen, to retrieve the soup from the embers in which it had been keeping warm and put it into a pretty tureen. Carry that carefully to the table... bring out the apple tart... put out the cheese and bread, light candles... open and pour wine. There.

The table was perfect. It lacked only diners.

The music from the other room was softer now, more contemplative. Surely that must mean he was in a better mood?

Christine squared her shoulders and went into the parlour, approaching her husband from behind.

"Erik, please come to the table. Dinner is ready."

"Leave me alone, Christine."

She drew back. His tone had been curt and dismissive; not at all what one expected from a loving husband whose wife could "do anything she liked with him." Hurt welled up.

" _Er-ik._ I want you to eat dinner with me! Come to the table, everything's hot and ready!" She was whining; her voice sounded so even to her own ears.

"Christine, _I said leave me alone._ "

No one could imbue simple words with the level of sheer menace that Erik could. Fear flared in his wife's heart. She backed up swiftly, and then turned and fled into the dining room. With her back against the closed door, she panted, heart pounding. Before her eyes the laid table mocked her, with its comfortable bourgeois ornaments, perfect for a normal husband and wife.

Except they weren't.

She tottered a few steps, pulled out one of the chairs, and collapsed awkwardly into it. The bulk of her train twisted around her legs, the mass of fabric sliding off to one side and preventing her from sitting properly. She started to sob, slamming her fist on the table. She wasn't supposed to have to seat herself in a dress like this! No woman could! That was why a gentleman must help his lady sit, when she was dressed formally. But Erik had not so much as turned around to look at her, much less noticed and appreciated how far she had gone to dress for him! No gentlemanly husband for Christine. Only a bad-tempered, self-centred, rude man, more than willing to insist that a woman marry him but unwilling to treat her decently afterward.

 _You chose this,_ whispered her mind. _He gave you up. You decided to come back_.

She seized her wine glass and drank deeply, not even tasting it. When the level of the glass was a quarter of what it had been, she lowered it and gasped for breath, squeezing her eyes shut.

He hadn't even turned around. All the day's preparation, all the money spent on dinner, all the time spent dressing – and he wouldn't even give her his attention long enough for her to show it to him. How was there to be any telling whether he would or would not like the effort she had made, if he refused even to see it?

She swallowed the last of the wine, and refilled her glass. Sipping more slowly, her thoughts spun in circles as the alcohol worked on her. She began to be annoyed with herself. Why had she panicked like that? She was his _wife_. She, of all people, knew him to be a man and not some terrifying demon; why could she not control herself enough to be immune to that particular tone of his voice?

Why could he not love her enough to be unwilling to use it on her?

If he did not love her enough... after everything he had done, and been, to get her... what about their child?

Oh God.

She put a hand on her flat stomach, appalled, and suddenly more terrified than she had been in the parlour. Now her terror was not only for herself, but for her defenceless unborn baby. She had been indulging in rose-coloured, happy fantasies of Erik as an adoring father, imagining him tenderly rocking an infant, patiently explaining mathematics to an enraptured small son, or holding a tiny daughter on his lap to pick out a simple tune on the piano. Surely he would be thrilled to have such a tangible proof of their love. Surely his remaining self-hatred would finally be exorcised, with a person who was so wholly his and could be brought up to love him and see him as the brilliant man he was. Christine knew that she had made him begin his slow climb back to sanity; she had fervently believed that their child would complete it.

What a fool. Why should a man who had exulted in crime and a bitter vengefulness for the thirty-odd years of his adult life be able to change so dramatically and so soon? Why would he have any idea what to do with children? Why, it would upset him, wouldn't it, maybe make him retreat from the world once more. What if – oh, God – what if he went back to his old ways?

She dropped her face into her hands. Now far more horrible images appeared in her mind, of herself having to try to explain to the children why Papa's hands smelled of death, or why he had shut himself up in his room and would not speak to them. Or why he had screamed at them and terrified them out of their wits. He might well not have any patience for children. What if everything they did annoyed him? He'd been violent with Christine already, more than once. What was to stop him from doing so to a child? His mistreatment at the hands of others had caused him to bring far worse crashing down upon the heads of those others, if he had the chance. Might his horrific past make him treat his own children in a similar fashion, since it was all he knew? Or... what if she had to explain to them why he was not there at all? What if he were so angry about her pregnancy that he left her, abandoning her to raise their child on the streets?

Surely he would not do that. It was half his fault, after all.

 _Yes, and look how he's already acted when he didn't want to admit fault. He blamed you; why wouldn't he do it again? And to the child, if he has the opportunity?_

The memory of her treatment at his hands on their wedding night came rushing back, and suddenly she was angrier than she had ever been. Oh, no, he would not make their child feel as she had felt! She would not allow it. He might be the head of the household under the law, but she was a mother, or going to be, and mothers would fight heaven and earth for their children.

She rose to her feet and stormed out into the parlour, seething. When she spoke, her voice was strident.

"Erik, come to the table this instant! I've been to a lot of trouble to make dinner for you, and I've something to tell you. And I demand your attention, as your wife."

She marched to the piano, rage making it impossible for her to fear him just now, and snatched the score right out from under his pen.

"That's enough, I said! I've had all I can stand of you ignoring me!"

The response was instantaneous. He turned on her like a striking cobra, rocketed off the piano bench and grabbed for the score. Unfortunately for him, his wife knew exactly how swift his reactions were; she had been expecting this, and had already darted out of his reach.

"Give me that! How dare you?!"

"How dare I? How dare _you_? You'd just as soon I wasn't even here, wouldn't you? Why did you fight so hard for me if you didn't really want me?"

"Damn it!" he roared, slamming a fist down on a table and making the objects on it rattle. "I am tired of hearing that! Am I to have only the infuriating aspects of a wife, and not the good? Invent some other accusation, for the love of God, but give me back my score and leave me _alone_!"

She ran even farther away from him and flipped it open randomly.

"Honestly, Erik, what _is_ this?" She began trying to sing the melody, her tone deliberately derisive.

"Be quiet, woman! You are not skilled enough to sing this without instruction! Take your caterwauling elsewhere, you screeching Fury! Christ, I wish you were singing on a street corner if it would only mean you would leave me in peace!"

"My voice was good enough for you when you wanted to show off your teaching skills to the world! There is something wrong with you, not with me! Is this going to be another convoluted piece? If you insist on writing things that are unsingable that is not my fault!"

"If there is something wrong with this work it will be your fault! How am I supposed to accomplish anything if I am constantly interrupted? I swear, I shall title this work 'The Nagging Wife'!"

"If you didn't behave in such a fashion I wouldn't have to nag you. I've been all afternoon cooking dinner for you and you won't even taste it! And if you think I'm ever going to sing this for you after you've treated me like this while you were writing it, you can just think again!"

He strode to the bookshelf, seized a score, and hurled it at her. She ducked, dropping Erik's composition, and the other hit the wall behind her and slid to the floor in a heap of pages. Bending down, she picked it up hurriedly; it was _Cosi Fan Tutte_.

"Take that, then, and be damned to you! If you do not like Erik's compositions do us all a favour and do not sing them! Go sing music from the opera instead, Christine Daae! Sing the works of lesser composers!"

"Lesser? Lesser?" she screeched, shaking _Cosi_ at him. "Mozart, lesser? My God, you are the most arrogant man in the world! At least Mozart wrote music that could be sung by a human!"

"Must I remind you, Christine, that you still can not sing the Queen of the Night in a satisfactory fashion? Your last attempt at it was laughable."

That stung. She flung the score back at him. He shot out a long hand and caught it out of the air, a display of his lightning-fast reflexes that only made her angrier.

"It would be satisfactory for anyone who wasn't an unfeeling, unreasonable – "

"If I am unreasonable it is because you drive me to it, you stupid woman!" he bellowed. "You come repeatedly to bother me, and you are surprised that I become angry? You did not want my company these last few nights. Interfering, nosy bitch! By God, I wish I had never met you!"

She staggered back against the wall, her mouth falling open. She had not dreamed he would go that far. To say such a thing, and after all the – Tears sprang instantly to her eyes. She was too hurt to comprehend the words that had come before those last ones.

"Out!" he shouted, at the top of his immensely powerful lungs. She rushed past him, her ears ringing, and down the hall. The bedroom door slammed.

O-O-O O-O-O


	16. Chapter 16

Next chapter, folks. I'm so glad you all are liking this! Now you'll get to see what Erik thought of their quarrel... or will you? After all, he'd have to remember it first...

 _Chapter 16. July, 1887. Early Saturday morning, hours after the quarrel._

Erik came very suddenly awake, heart pounding. Reflexively he slapped at a pocket, and his dagger was in his hand before he realised where he was.

He sat back down on the piano bench, gasping for breath. His heartbeat gradually slowed, and he took off his mask and wiped his brow, thinking how insupportable it was that a man should have such a reaction when he was in his own house. But he'd always been prone to waking up that way if there was anything in the least unusual about the waking, largely because there had been so many times when such reflexes had saved his life. He should have known better than to let himself fall asleep over the piano.

He ran a hand through his hair and then winced. His fingers were sore from writing. He looked over at the pages of scrawled music, and flipped through them. Yes, they would do. A little bit of revision would be needed, to be sure, but the bones of what he wanted were there. He yawned, and stood up, looking forward to an invigorating shower-bath, and thinking that afterward clean clothes and food would be in order.

It was when he was cleaning his teeth that he remembered, and he stopped and lowered the toothbrush slowly. God. Christine! She had wanted... something... oh, yes, she'd wanted him to come and eat dinner, again. And he'd been irritated and sent her away, and she'd kept pestering him, and finally he'd exploded and said – what had he said, exactly? He couldn't remember the specifics, but grimaced at the thought of what his words were likely to have been, especially as he seemed to recall her throwing something at him.

Why had she been so adamant that he come to the table?

He finished his teeth, rubbed his wet hair with a towel, and went into the dining room, pulling on a fresh dressing gown on the way.

She was not there. The table was laid with food in serving dishes, silver and china, flowers, candles... what was all this? There was one glass that was full of wine, and the other empty, but plainly used. He walked slowly around the table, puzzled.

Obviously she'd gone to some trouble to prepare dinner and set the table. But... why? And where was she? What time was it, anyway? He went out to the parlour to get his watch, realised he'd let it run down, and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was running; Christine must have wound it. A good thing, too, for in the days of his bachelorhood, when he went into a composing fit that lasted for days all the clocks in the house would stop from lack of attention and he would have not a notion what time or even what day it was. On many occasions he had been obliged to go up into the upper reaches of the Opera or out of doors, to spy on people for long enough to discover the answer. But now, with a wife... with someone to help him, tend to him, he at last had someone to perform such kindnesses, small perhaps, but more than he had ever known before. He swept his eyes about the room; traces of her were everywhere, both the more permanent ones, such as a pretty cushion she had embroidered in a pattern she fancied was Persian, and the signs of things she must have done just that day. The water pitcher and glass; had it not even occurred to him, earlier, to think about how they got there? The remains of a fire that had been kept going, to make the room cosy; her mending basket on the small table by her favourite chair, with one of his shirts in it that needed buttons resewn; the room tidied and dusted, when he would have let it fall into disorder until he was finished working.

He thought, very tenderly, of how different his life was now with Christine in it, and how much more delightful. He had been in terror these last several days that she was turning cold to him. The urge to compose had not been so very desperate at first.

On Wednesday afternoon he had started working on a snippet of melody that was playing in his head, merely out of boredom as Christine was out and he had nothing much to do, having completed the week's quota of reminding the denizens of the Opera that the ghost had not taken the summer off. By the time she was back, he barely noticed, because the snippet had become several songs, and images from Dante, the setting to music of which he'd considered doing for decades but never quite got round to, were filling his mind along with bars of ever more music. Fully intrigued, he'd continued exploring them for several hours, curious to see where this burst of inspiration might lead, until he started on a section about the lady Beatrice and how she was the poet's salvation. This made Erik think of his Christine, who had been his own salvation, and he set down his pen and his copy of the _Divine Comedy_ and got up from the piano to go in search of her. Surely she must be waiting up for him in bed; it was eleven p.m., nearly the witching hour, and he went single-mindedly to the bedroom, intent on revelling in pagan joys.

But instead, it turned out to be the second night in a row in which he came to bed in want of his wife, only to find her soundly asleep. He stood over her slumbering form, nonplussed and annoyed. It was not common, now, for them to go this many days in a row without so indulging. To his shock and delight, she had swiftly learned to enjoy intimacy as much as, and maybe more, than he did, and with her youthful vigour was frequently the instigator of it. But the drawback to that was that he now felt hard done by if more than a couple of days passed without his being allowed his marital rights, even though only a few months ago he had thought it utterly out of the question that any woman, much less Christine, would permit any such thing… let alone demand it of him. Life often seemed very surreal these days.

He could always wake her. It was his right, after all. But he could not enjoy the act if she were not, and he'd learned already that she didn't appreciate being woken up before she was ready. Most theatre people were late risers, due to the constant late nights inherent in their profession, and Christine was no different. So then…why had she been asleep this early, two nights in a row? Why…yes, she _had_ seemed preoccupied before she went out, hadn't she? Did it mean something? Perhaps she was falling asleep deliberately in order to avoid him. Had her feelings changed?

Three months was time enough to have a change of heart, but not nearly enough to change the habits of a lifetime. The paranoia that was never very far away rushed over him without warning, and his unstable mind began to feel the beginnings of panic. Anxiously it cast about, looking in every corner for any possible danger. All manner of ways in which he might have bothered or frightened her promptly began suggesting themselves, till finally he put his hands over his face, shuddering, and then felt the twisted flesh under his fingers and was sharply reminded of her horror when she first saw his hideousness. True, she had insisted that it no longer disgusted her, and certainly acted as though that were true, but…what if it was indeed an act? She was an actress, after all, a damned good one, and he was only a poor dog ready to die for her love. It would not have been hard for her to deceive him, had she chosen to do so. His devotion to her had made him appallingly vulnerable.

On that Wednesday evening he had turned on his heel, stalking back out to the piano to soothe his turbulent emotions by returning to the arms of his ever-faithful Lady Music. _She_ would not forsake him, she would never forsake him. Women were fickle, but music…that, he could bend to his will as he liked, and master it totally. He had sat angrily down on the bench and seized his pen, nearly tearing a hole in the paper with the force of his writing. In no time at all he had descended into a complete berserk fit, great waves of music swelling up in his brain and overflowing so that he rushed to write them down before he forgot them, taking only brief notes in the personal notation which he had devised decades ago to both speed his writing and make it easier on his right hand. He lost all track of time and all sensations of hunger or thirst or fatigue, and he had been only distantly aware that it must be morning when Christine came looking for him hours later. Working throughout the entirety of Thursday, he ignored everything, from his wife to the passing of the hours. The time did not matter. All that mattered was his fear, and the music that was being born from it, and he did not want to talk to her now. He was getting far too dependent on her. He would be utterly lost if he lost her. Thus he was glad when she went out again on Friday morning, so that he did not have to see her and think of what it would be like if that happened.

Being left to his own devices at bedtime, though, was thoroughly distasteful, even when it didn't set him off in this fashion. By now, he was deliciously accustomed to her waiting up for him in the evenings in an alluring night-dress, or, if she were more impatient, coming to him to draw him away from whatever he was doing with soft kisses and enchanting embraces. Sometimes they did not even make it to bed, in fact, choosing instead a couch or the floor. Joining with her on the hearthrug, with the fire crackling gently and casting its golden glow over the splendour of her bare body, was a happiness he could never have imagined, before it wonderfully, unbelievably happened. God... to have lost that, now that he knew what it was to experience it... to have lost her to the Vicomte, of whom he was still cringingly, unmanfully afraid; he would not have been able to bear it. He had borne many terrible things throughout his long, violent life, but that would finish him. He leaned against the parlour wall, looking again at all the signs of her care for him, weak with relief at the evidence that perhaps her affections were still true.

It was now three in the morning on Saturday, and the house was silent. She must have gone to bed. Had he made her angry with him, after all, and all because of his own contemptible fears, when she hadn't actually been so before? Little by little the recollection of their quarrel was coming back to him, and he had a fair idea that he was going to be in trouble. Penance was probably going to be required. Maybe grovelling, too. Extravagant compliments, undoubtedly. It was surprising how far those last, which seemed always appreciated by Christine, would go to get him back in her good graces. It was not generally difficult for him to think of those, adoring her as he did, but just now his mental capacities were at a low ebb.

Should he eat something first, perhaps, to strengthen himself for the task? If he complimented her cooking, would she be pleased? And he was actually hungry. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. He went back out to the dining room, tore off a piece of bread, and ladled soup into a bowl, ignoring the pie. The wine in the full glass was surely spoiled, so he uncorked the bottle and poured fresh into a clean glass taken from the cabinet set into the wall. After a bite of the food, he took a sip of the wine, and frowned. What had she been about, thinking to serve this vintage with... what kind of soup was that? It was completely unsuitable to serve this wine with it. He must explain to her – wait. No. No. He was still a rank beginner when it came to understanding the female psyche, but he was quite certain that taking Christine to task over her choice of wine was, just now, likely to be a supremely bad idea.

He finished his meal. It had been quite acceptable, but he was going to have to come up with something much better than that to say to her. He took the food into the kitchen and put it away, cleared and washed the dishes, and then went back and blew out the candles. Christine was lucky not to have burnt the place down, leaving them lit like that. How strange to be worried about fire now, when only a few months before he had been hell-bent on destroying the entire Opera House. Then he went to their bedroom.

The door was locked. His eyebrow shot up. Oh, dear. He really was in trouble. Should he leave her undisturbed for a while?

His curiosity got the better of him, and he went to fetch his lockpicking tools. He would just have a quick look at her and determine the lay of the land. Erik could, after all, both pick a lock and open a door without making any sound, she would not be awakened unless he chose to do so...

The room was a shambles. The signs of her rage were everywhere; that ridiculously expensive dress lying crumpled and torn on the floor, undergarments scattered, her necklace in a puddle – having obviously been thrown against the wall – and small items lying around, indicating that they had been picked up and hurled about. The entire room was an utter disaster. His brow creased. This was unusual for his meek little protégée. She was not given to violent rages as he was. Had she learned this behaviour from him? Or had she simply been so hurt by his rejection of her carefully prepared dinner as to act in such an uncharacteristic manner? He trailed remorseful golden eyes over the huddled figure of his wife in what was now their bed. The idea that his approval of her housekeeping was that important to her was extraordinary, and difficult for him to grasp. Even after three months of marriage, he still was not used to it.

Her back was to him. He circled around, and spied dried tears on her cheek. His shoulders slumped.

Here, then, was evidence that yes, indeed, he'd hurt her. She had worked all afternoon preparing dinner for him, she'd shouted. And she'd plainly taken pains over the appearance of the table, and – his eyes swept the room – and apparently over her own appearance too. In fact... he inhaled experimentally.

Yes, it was there. That exotic scent that always meant –

He wasn't especially fond of most perfumes, finding many of them artificial and tawdry, annoying to his keen senses. But this one was different. It was an Eastern concoction that he'd been surprised to find on the streets of Paris, that day soon after their marriage when they were out more to wander aimlessly than to make any specific purchases. He'd pointed it out to Christine and commented offhandedly that it was one of the few scents he'd ever actually liked, and that the harem ladies used to use it in Persia. Christine, who found the idea of harems far more arousing than her husband would have liked, had looked up at him with mischievous eyes and asked if he'd like her to wear it. While he was still processing that, she'd stood up on her toes and whispered into his ear, "Would you like me to wear this and nothing else?"

The perfume had been purchased immediately, and Christine's wearing of it had evolved into a sort of signal between the two of them; when he detected it on her, he knew right away that she wanted him. And she'd had it on tonight. This woman, whom he loved beyond all reason, had spent her day tending to his comfort and cooking for him; had dressed carefully, to please him, and had laid out an elegant table. She'd done her best to make a romantic evening for him, and that... that was something which, in his wildest fantasies, he would never have imagined any woman would ever even consider doing for him, much less actually follow through on. It was still hard enough to accept that she'd married him. That she would go to this much effort to please him was astonishing. And what had he done with this precious gift she'd held out to him with both hands? He'd ignored it, shoved it aside, and yelled at her when she tried to bring his attention to it a second time.

He'd said a good many unkind things, too, all his frustration and fear of the past few days exploding at once. The harsh comments he'd made hadn't seemed so bad to him; he'd been insulted far worse, many times. Erik pondered what he could remember of the quarrel. He would have thought that she would know he hadn't really meant most of what he'd bellowed at her. He lost his temper on a regular basis, which she should be well aware of now. But…look at this room. It appeared that he'd cut Christine to the quick. Well, she was a woman, after all, she couldn't be expected to bear as much as a man. He really ought to have realised that and curbed his tongue. Women were irrational and overly emotional creatures, and she'd evidently taken his words far harder than he would have. What was no more than a pinprick to him might be a knife in the heart to her. Had he learned nothing in three months of marriage? Would he never be done making this sort of mistake? How could a man who did not possess a nose in the first place, spend so much time cutting it off to spite his face?

He felt terribly ashamed of himself, which was still a rather new feeling for him, and most unpleasant. He must do something to make it go away. He circled back around to the other side of the bed again, and then muttered, "What are you? A moth, for God's sake?"

He needed to do something that would please and pacify her. Well... she'd put on that perfume, hadn't she? Perhaps she was no longer as cold to him as she'd been these last three days, three days of a monkish existence that he was no longer used to living with? He looked at her tempting curves, her graceful back, and the sheet that was draped over her hips, waiting to be pulled off. Tendrils of desire began to snake through him.

He restrained himself. Not now. He could have had a warm, willing, living wife earlier, it seemed, and he had been too great a fool to know it. He didn't deserve her. Maybe he never had. He began to move silently about the room, picking up some of the things she had thrown around. A few of the necklace's links were bent out of place, and he absently fixed them before laying it on the vanity. Her dress was crumpled on the rug beside the bed; he picked it up and tried futilely to smooth out the wrinkles, thinking of when it had been ordered and of how much he had looked forward to seeing her in it. The brief surge of energy he'd experienced from his earlier catnap and the meal he'd eaten was evaporating quickly, and there didn't seem to be anything to do now but wait until Christine woke up. He'd been married long enough already to have learned what happened if he woke her when she had fallen asleep upset with him. After one such encounter, it had been a wonder that he remained in one piece.

He kneeled and stretched out wearily on the rug, tucking the dress under his head so that he could burrow his face into the soft velvet, in lieu of her body. It was ruined anyway, and it smelled of her. A strand of her long hair was hanging over the side of the bed; he reached out and stroked it wistfully with just one finger, as if using his whole hand would have been too presumptuous. His eyes closed.

O-O-O O-O-O


	17. Chapter 17

_Chapter 17. July, 1887. Early Saturday morning._

Christine woke at some unidentifiable time in the middle of the night. She blinked, dazed from what had been a heavy sleep. What had awoken her?

Silence, that's what. For the first time in two days, the house was quiet. No music coming from the other room – where was he? She sat up hurriedly, and her eyes fell on the recumbent form of her husband, sound asleep on the rug beside the bed, with his head pillowed on her dress and one arm outstretched toward the bed, and her.

For just a moment, she was touched, and then she saw again the crumpled dress and remembered her efforts of the previous evening – and his reaction. She was suddenly furious once more. He had a lot of nerve, coming in here through a locked door, when that should have made it obvious that she no longer wanted him with her! He could just lie there, then, on the cold hard floor with only her clothes and not her for company! She hoped he never touched her again.

She looked at him again; his brow was furrowed, even as he slept.

Well. Good. She hoped it had taken him as long to fall asleep as it had taken her. He deserved that and worse.

He must be very tired. He hadn't slept for nearly forty-eight hours, and he was certainly not a young man. What if his composing excesses made him ill? He needed rest in a bed, not on the floor. The change in him after he stopped sleeping in the coffin had been drastic. And yet...

And yet, with all the fatigue he must have finally started to suffer from, he had not disturbed her in order to get into bed. Nor had he lain down on one of the couches in the living room, though they would undoubtedly have been more comfortable than the floor.

He must have wanted very badly to be near her.

Why? Why would he want to be near her if she were everything that he had said she was? Her skin jumped and prickled with the memory of his words, and her heart seemed to shudder, as though it were mortally wounded. She could not repress a sob, and then another. She lay back down.

O-O-O

Erik woke up with difficulty this time, as something dragged his exhausted brain out of its desperately needed slumber. That sound... he shook his head, trying to clear his head.

It was the sound of a woman crying. He sat up, and saw that it was Christine, lying with her back to him and weeping desolately. She sounded as though she were in utter despair, and the loneliness inherent in her voice was instantly recognizable to someone who had suffered so much of it himself. She sounded as if she felt herself to be completely alone in the world.

He reached out instinctively for her, but then drew back. Would his touch be welcomed, after his earlier mistreatment of her? Surely his embrace would not be able to comfort her now. Forlornly he turned to the only tool he had left, his voice.

He began to sing, as soothingly as he could manage but with a deliberate effort not to hypnotize her. She jerked, obviously realizing he was there, but did not turn around. She hiccuped, sobbed a few more times, and then was quiet.

"Christine?" he said tentatively.

"What?"

"I am sorry."

She was silent for a moment, and then repeated miserably, "Sorry?"

"Yes. I did not mean to hurt you."

She sat up suddenly, her red eyes meeting his. "Did not mean to?" she whispered, and then she dropped her face into her hands and went into a fresh storm of crying.

"Christine... Christine, don't weep so! I did not mean to hurt you!" What else was he supposed to do but apologize? Why would that have this effect on her? "Christine, please!" He seized the mattress and shook it in his desperation to make her understand. She was saying something else; he forced himself to focus on her words.

"But you did," she sobbed. "You did mean to. You must have. You don't love me, after all. You just wanted me as a... a thing. A wife is nothing but a plaything to you, to put away in the closet when you are tired of it. You – you – I spent all _day_ trying to cook a nice dinner for you, and I dressed for you and – and – and you just shouted at me! You wouldn't even look at me! You couldn't be bothered to see how nice I looked, or the table! And, and... you... Oh, God, the things you said to me! I'll never forget them! How could you, how could you?"

He was at a loss. Then he noticed that she was starting to choke, and went to get a handkerchief. When her sobs began to slow, he held it under her chin till she took it, blew her nose and wiped her eyes. Then she said wretchedly, "If it was truly not your intention to hurt me, then that means that all the things you said about me were true. It means that my opinion is absolutely wrong. And if I am all those things you said, than you couldn't possibly love me or want me. I was never anything but a trophy to you after all."

"Wait, what?" he stammered. Her reasoning was escaping him. "Christine, what do you mean?"

"You do not love me," she repeated, slowly as though she were talking to a child. "All that matters to you is your music. You don't care about me one bit. Why did you marry me? You're married to your piano. At least it won't come and _bother you_."

"Christine, Erik is old and set in his ways and he isn't used to being married. He had no idea that Christine had done all that for him. He would never have presumed so much. He is…cruel and undeserving of such kindness."

"Yes, you are! You're horrible!"

"Yes, I am. You are correct. Christine, I am sorry," he repeated, and was about to reiterate that he had not meant to say whatever it was that she was objecting to, when it dawned on him that that was likely to make things far worse. He had apparently said something, maybe several somethings, that hurt her very deeply. If he then insisted that he had not meant it, that would imply that he had been willing to visit that hurt upon her just so that he could say things that did not actually matter very much to him.

He stood by the bed with his mouth open, thinking frantically. His powerful mind was well used to solving difficult problems, but not of this variety, and it was spinning in circles.

If he said he had not meant whatever he had said, that would mean in turn that he had injured her for something that was not important after all. That was not acceptable. But neither could he say that he had meant his cruel words. What option was left, then?

Begging, that was what. He fell to his knees and buried his face in the mattress. His stomach churned at the thought of losing her love.

"Christine, Christine, Erik was wrong! He was wrong to hurt you, wrong to say those words! Won't you forgive me? Christine..." He reached out a hand to her, then drew it back, curling his fingers in.

"You think you deserve forgiveness?" she asked coldly.

"No... no, Erik does not deserve it. He is a monster, to hurt his wife so. He does not deserve a wife."

"You're right," she agreed. "You don't."

She left him sitting there open-mouthed on the floor, and said nothing more as she got up, slid her arms into a wrapper and clutched it around her. Then she gathered up a fresh set of underclothes and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a decisive thud.

Unsure of what to do, he remained motionless for a few moments after she had disappeared, before getting up stiffly and sitting down in an armchair. He listened to the sounds of water running and objects rattling as she made her toilette, till she emerged, body firmly corseted, hair pinned ruthlessly into submission atop her head, and her wrapper buttoned all the way up to her chin. There was a quick, angry flash of her eyes as she noticed he was sitting there, before she lowered them again and bent to pick up her discarded petticoats.

"I could deal with that," he offered quickly, wishing now that he had made a more thorough job of tidying up earlier. Perhaps it might have pleased her to wake up to a neat room?

She ignored him, and continued picking up the mess on the floor, leaving him nonplussed. He watched her move around the room, tidying everything away. She stopped when she saw the mended necklace, and then seized it and shoved it into a drawer. She did not end there, either, but systematically stowed away everything of hers that was visible, from the hairbrushes on the vanity to the fashion magazines on the nightstand.

"Christine, what on earth are you doing?" She did not answer. Finally, exasperated, he got up and seized her wrist as she was reaching to put her hatpin holder up on the closet shelf where her hats were kept. "What are you doing?" he repeated. She pulled her arm out of his grasp, set the holder on the shelf, and went out of the bedroom.

Half concerned and half irritated, he followed her, and watched her move round the living room, doing the exact same thing; putting away every evidence of herself. Was she doing this to spite him? Clearing away everything of hers so that he could not have their comforting presence when she was out? He was now more annoyed than worried, and he snapped, "Christine, I asked you what you were doing. Answer me."

She looked at him then, and as a good wife should, obeyed.

"You said you wished you had never met me. It is unfortunate for you, then, that we are married and you must be burdened with me. But I will put away my things so they are not in your way, and try not to bother you as much as may be possible."

"But that makes no – I don't – Christine, why won't you believe me when I say I did not mean it?"

She did not answer again, but picked up her mending basket and went to put it into a closet. The first closet she tried, however, was full of odds and ends, and there was no room for the basket. She shut the closet door, plainly thinking hard, and then went out into the hall. He trailed after her, and then knew a moment of abject horror when he realised she was heading for the storage space that held the mannequin of her.

"Christine, no! Wait – "

Too late. She yanked open the door, gave a small shriek as she came face to face with her own visage, and shoved the door shut again. He breathed a sigh of relief.

She shot him a quick, disgusted glance, marched past him, and crammed the basket into the bedroom closet. When she went past him again, he snatched her arm, and would not let go this time.

"Christine, you are being absurd. I never said I didn't want anything of yours around. I have already apologized for my unacceptable behaviour of last night. I was angry and I lost control of myself. That's all. Now, you can not have married me without knowing that I have a terrible temper and that I can not always contain it. What possessed you to deliberately provoke me? And why do you refuse to forgive me for the results of that?"

There was a flash of anger in her face then, and she started to say heatedly, "How can you – " Then she caught herself and sighed heavily.

"I'm sorry. I don't want to argue with you. I want some fresh air. Do I have your permission to go outside for a walk?"

His permission to – was that what she wanted? The freedom to come and go as she pleased? Well, he recalled reading an old legend that hinged on the idea that the one thing women wanted most was their own way. Sometimes those old stories had more truth in them than might be obvious at first glance. Perhaps she wanted to know that she could do just as she pleased and he would not take her to task. Was that what all this clearing away of her things was? Was she testing him? This did not seem to have much to do with the current conflict, but then feminine thinking, judging by his limited observations, appeared to be anything but logical.

Hoping he was doing the correct thing, he let go of her arm, stepped back and folded his hands in front of him, and said, "I would by no means impede any desire of yours."

She turned abruptly and went back into the bedroom. He stood there uncertainly. She hadn't looked pleased. Had that also not been the right response?

Damn it all. He went across the room and sat in a wing chair, feeling very tired. When Christine emerged, wearing a walking dress and pulling on camel-coloured gloves, it was perfectly obvious that she was _not_ pleased, at all.

"Will you be back soon?" he asked, trying another tack and hoping to make her realise that he wanted her company. She'd apparently objected to his ignoring her while he was composing, though on what grounds she could do that after treating him in similar fashion previously, he did not know.

"Why?" she asked coldly. "Did you want me to perform my wifely duties?"

"What? No!" he retorted, outraged. "Did you think that was all I wanted you for? Well, I do not! Stay out as long as you like!"

She picked up her parasol and slammed her way out of the house. He leaned back in the chair, certain that he must have said something wrong yet again. Anger boiled up then, and he surged to his feet, aimed a punch at the wall, and checked himself just in time, driving his fist into a pillow instead. Women! No matter what he did, it was the wrong thing. Frustration roiled inside him, and he strode to the storage room and dragged the mannequin out. He must dispose of it. Thank God she hadn't examined it any closer; she'd never have forgiven him for _that_ either.

But…it looked like her. It was beautiful. He could not quite bring himself to hurl it into the lake, to be destroyed by the water. How to…

The coffin! Of course. Christine had been at him for weeks to get rid of that, too. If he sealed the mannequin inside the coffin and dropped the both of them into the lake, that would be two things that annoyed Christine gone at once. Yes, that would be best **.**

Hauling the coffin out to the lake shore was not too difficult, as it was on wheels. It had had to be, in order for him to get it down here in the first place. No need for weights; it was more than heavy enough already. Deliberately not looking at the still, waxen face that was a perfect replica of Christine's, down to the hair whose colour he had matched at a wig-maker's by stealing golden strands from her hairbrush, he shut the lid and shoved the lot into the water.

Well. That had been more disturbing than he wanted to admit. He stood watching the air bubbles coming up to the surface of the water, wondering what had he been thinking of. What kind of a husband was he, to have left such a thing where his wife might find it?

He hadn't been thinking, that was it. He'd been a love-struck idiot for the past three months, so disgracefully delighted to have Christine as his wife that he'd taken no thought of tomorrow, no thought of the consequences of any of his actions. He stalked back into the house and to the bedroom to exchange his dressing gown for proper daytime clothing, then to the front door to seize his cloak and hat and throw them on. Black mask securely in place as well, he poled himself across the lake with quick, furious strokes, and went up into the Opera House, where he assuaged his feelings by dropping a few sandbags, scaring the wits out of the two new ballet girls, leaving a pair of nasty notes for the managers, and whispering incessantly in Madame Giry's ear as she attempted to supervise a junior box attendant. This last backfired on him, though, as the widow, jaw set and eyes snapping, retaliated by arranging his preferred chair in Box Five in a position which she knew he did not like. With a silent snarl he gave up and turned away. It seemed the monks had the right idea after all. Dealings with women were a bad business all around.

Back down in his house, he paced up and down his parlour like a tiger, until he wore himself out enough to want to sit down in an armchair again. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a moment, before opening them again and looking bleakly around his parlour. It seemed so empty and cold, without her. Christine. His redeemer, though he was wholly unworthy of being redeemed; his beloved. The only woman who had ever seen any capacity for good in him, and the one whom he adored with everything that was in him. His anger at her had dissipated now, and the fear of losing her love reasserted itself. What in God's name could he do to win his way back into her good graces? What did she want? As for himself, at the moment he wanted nothing more than to see her smile at him again.

The chill, at least, he could do something about. He got up to start a fire, thinking of her and wondering what she was doing right then. She had said only that she wanted fresh air. Could it be that she was unhappy living underground like this?

He could understand that. He'd wanted a normal house, and life, himself quite recently. He'd rather forgotten about it, in the rush of passion of the first few months of their marriage, but perhaps Christine had not? He had, after all, vowed to try to live like a normal man if she married him; did she resent that he had not, so far, kept his promise?

Fire now crackling briskly, Erik went and hauled out his drafting materials, sat down and began to draw hurriedly. An elegant dining room; a spacious workroom for him; a sitting room for her; a music room; a conveniently laid out kitchen; a parlour with plenty of windows to let the light in. Would she prefer morning or afternoon light? And in which rooms? He would have to ask her. It would be difficult for him to be comfortable now, in that much of it. Once he had gone about easily in the blinding sunlight of the Orient, but with the intervening years and the damaging effects of his self-imposed isolation in the darkness to get in the way, that was no longer the case. He thought he could do it, though, if her happiness hung in the balance.

After a while, he put down his drafting pencil. He had done as much as he could now without asking her opinion. Please, let that pacify her!

His fatigue was coming back inexorably. He had not been able to sleep the clock round as he needed to do after a long bout of working, and with nothing in particular which had to be done, his energy was waning quickly. Erik banked the fire so it would not set the house aflame, and then threw off his coat, loosened his tie and collar, and lay down on one of the couches, wishing for oblivion. It came almost immediately.

O-O-O O-O-O


	18. Chapter 18

Hi folks, here is the next chapter. Christine will soon have more problems than just Erik to deal with... if the phrase "just Erik" is ever applicable!

 _Chapter 18. July, 1887. Saturday morning._

Christine made her way up along the new route to the door on the Rue Scribe, and for a few minutes, merely walked aimlessly, too angry to do otherwise. Eventually, she stopped, got her bearings, and realised she was near the shop of Madame Bertois, the dressmaker whom she patronized. With a toss of her head, she entered the shop and ordered a new evening gown, requesting that it be made over the largest bustle they had.

"And... it must be made so that it can be... let out soon," she finished, blushing.

"Of course, Madame," said the seamstress, with perfect equanimity. Well, reasoned Christine, she must have many customers who had to make such requests. "Congratulations. You must be very happy."

Christine looked up, surprised. "I – thank you," she stammered. After the events of yesterday, the coming child had begun to seem more a dreadful predicament than anything to be proud of; but the other woman seemed to take it for granted that her pregnancy was something to be joyful about.

"This is your first, isn't it?"

"Yes. I have only been married a short time."

"You will need infant's clothes, then. Will you be purchasing them?" asked Madame. "If so, then I can recommend a good shop to go to. But I know some women prefer to make their own."

Christine had not actually thought that far in advance. She pondered the question for a moment, and then said, "I think I will make my own. I like sewing, and it seems... sweet, to make one's baby its first clothes."

"Yes, it is," said the other woman, smiling. "Do you know which draper to go to for flannels and cambrics and such?"

Christine did not, and was happy to accept Madame Bertois' advice on the subject, as well as on new, bigger dresses and underthings for later in her pregnancy. After choosing the style and colour of her new evening dress, she paid for everything with her husband's money and departed.

Without Erik's brooding presence upsetting her, hunger began to make itself known, and she found a cafe and ordered a pastry and coffee. She had not yet experienced nausea in the mornings, though the doctor had warned her that it might happen, and probably sooner rather than later. She sipped slowly, watching the crowds go by, and hearing the noises of the city. She had been living here for a long time now, and Paris was so very different from the hills and woods that she had been used to as a child, from the quiet and solitude of the country. Perros-Guirec had been a welcome, if temporary, relief, the beauty of the sea soothing her soul and mind.

Until, of course, her life had turned into a far bigger mess than she would ever have anticipated.

She blinked hard and stood up, having finished her meal. She did not care to think about all of that just now. She would find a park to sit in, for a small taste of nature. It was not enough, but it would have to do.

Once she was seated on a secluded park bench, she could not prevent her thoughts from turning to the current conflict between her husband and herself. The pain his vicious words had caused still burned within her heart; his apologies of that morning had not gone very far in alleviating it, because she did not think they were sincere. He seemed to think that his worst transgression had been to refuse to come to dinner and appreciate her hard work in trying to make a romantic evening for him; true, he had said that his words were wrong, but he obviously thought that his having lost his temper ought to excuse the resulting insults. Why, he even seemed to believe that she had only herself to blame, for annoying him! She had just barely stopped herself from making an angry retort when he came out with that last incredible line.

She had intended him to see that she was taking his words seriously once he saw her putting away all evidence of herself; she had presumed that that would drive home to him the reality that he could not simply say whatever his temper prompted him to and then expect her to let his words roll off her back, like water off a duck's feathers. How could he say such vile things with every appearance of sincerity, and then think that she should not believe he meant them? And why would anyone say things like that to someone without intent? If he honestly didn't realise that such behaviour would hurt her badly, then he was... was self-centred and... and heartless. He cared more for his own freedom to let his anger out, than for her happiness.

Well, it was not as though he had not behaved like that before they were married, was it? She had rushed into marriage with him, she who knew what he was better than anyone – with perhaps, she amended herself, the exception of his odd friend the Persian. She had no business to do that unless she was willing to accept all of him, the bad with what little glimmers of goodness he had shown that made her believe he possessed the capability to be a better man, if he would only try.

To try... but, when people tried to do something, they did not always succeed, did they? Especially when trying to change one's habits? She had certainly been unable to at times. It drove Erik mad – well, madder – when she talked too much while he was trying to concentrate on something, and she had tried not to but still forgot occasionally.

But being too garrulous was nowhere near as reprehensible as treating one's spouse as he had treated her. How could she be expected to bear it? Especially if he were to continue to do so?

"I honestly believed he loved me now, really loved me," she whispered, her throat tight. Erik had warned her against using her voice with her throat like that. "He said he loved me, just before Raoul and I left him. And I thought he meant that he felt real love for me now, and that before it had only been obsession."

Had he only said he loved her as a last-ditch effort to get her to stay with him? Had it been one last feeble attempt at the sort of manipulation that had worked so well on her before? And had she gone off half-cocked into a marriage with him because of it?

But they were married now, and there was no going back. They were both bound to each other – or trapped. Half-heartedly she contemplated living separately, as some couples did when they just could not abide each other's company. But... how would she ever be able to trust that Erik would not hunt her down and force her to come back to him? Would he ever agree to let her go again, now that he knew the delights of marriage? Now that she was legally his? And the child... the child...

Her head hurt. All this was painful to think about. She had come to the park for respite, not for dwelling on upsetting things. She kicked at the dirt with the toe of her boot. Why could she not just sit and enjoy being outside? Look, the sun was shining, and see how pretty the flower beds were, and there, listen, a bird was singing beautifully. She closed her eyes and tilted her head up toward the sun, enjoying its light and warmth, and exposing her face from under her hat brim.

"Christine!"

Her eyes flew open, to see a handsome young blond man making his way swiftly toward her. The bottom dropped out of her stomach. It was Raoul.

O-O-O O-O-O

Author's Note:

I expect some of you won't be best pleased to see Raoul reappearing, but it wouldn't be _Phantom of the Opera_ without him, would it? And Christine did rather jilt him abruptly. But, to her, how does he stack up against Erik now? Only the next chapter will tell! I'll try to post it later this week, as I'm leaving you all on a bit of a cliffhanger.


	19. Chapter 19

Hi all,

Sorry for not posting this sooner. Last week got away from me. Here you are!

 _Chapter 19. July, 1887. Saturday morning (continued)._

"Christine!" Raoul was running toward her, his whole youthful face lit up. She shot to her feet, but it was too late, he was already almost to her.

He pulled up sharply in front of her and seized her hands. "Christine! Christine, thank God! I have been frantic with worry!"

She was stammering, unable to say anything sensible.

"I received your note, but why would you write such a thing, Christine?" Raoul was saying insistently. "Why didn't you want us to be together anymore? What could have come over you? Christine, I risked my life to save you!"

Mortification made her tremble, and she wanted to be anywhere but here. She jerked her hands away and bent to pick up her parasol, saying, "Raoul, please, leave me alone. I meant what I said in that letter. I can't see you, not now."

He reached out and grabbed her elbow. "But Christine, _why_? Why would you change so quickly? Just the night before you had been weeping and begging me to save you from that... that... is it him again, Christine? Is Erik working on your poor susceptible mind again, my darling? I'll kill him if it's true, the monster!"

Now Christine was suddenly furious, on her husband's behalf. She tried to pull her elbow out of the Vicomte's grasp but could not, and instead she simply pulled her glove off and brandished her left hand before Raoul's astonished eyes.

"Raoul, I'm married. Look! And I really can't see you! I want you to leave me alone. Now let go of me!"

He did not let go. Instead, he looked first incredulous, as he said, " _Married_? But... why?" Then he looked at her with a dawning suspicion that made a telltale blush spread over her cheeks. She felt small and contemptible. Raoul's clean simple normality had always made Erik, and her association with him, seem something dreadful, shameful, something she needed to hide deep in the recesses of her mind, not at all something to proudly display before an old friend like that.

"No..." said Raoul slowly. "Christine... Christine, tell me it's not true. Please?" She ducked her chin, blinking, hating herself for being so obvious, and for feeling so suddenly ashamed of her marriage.

"My God. The fiend! What did he do that made you feel you had to marry him?" He stepped closer to her and seized her other arm, forcing her to turn to face him, and she dropped her glove. "He didn't have me anymore to blackmail you with. So what did he use?"

"I... I..."

"Christine, please, you can tell me. I promise not to think badly of you, none of this is your fault. It is all Erik's, the brute! Christine... did he... did he _violate_ you?"

"No!" Revolted, she almost shrieked the word. "No, he didn't, Raoul! He thought _you_ had, when he saw that my hands were bruised!" It would have helped if Raoul had had the grace to look abashed at that, but he did not; well, of course he wouldn't, he had believed he was absolutely right not to let her go back, even when she fought. Now she struggled against him again, but could not break free this time either. "Let me go!" The blood was beating hotly through her veins, and as she always had, she rushed to defend Erik to Raoul. "I went back to him of my own free will, just like I did before! I realised he meant to end his life, and I was horrified! I knew then that I wanted to... that I did not..." The answer to what exactly she had felt in that terrible moment was incredibly complicated, too much so for her to be able to explain it when she was angry and embarrassed like this, and especially when she still did not fully understand it herself.

Being tongue-tied, unfortunately, did not achieve anything but to make Raoul think she could not find legitimate reasons for her headlong descent back into Erik's hell. "Christine, it's all right, I do not blame you for any of this, not at all, I swear it!"

Idiot! What did he think she needed his forgiveness for? They were making a scene in public, and she was mortified. At any moment someone might happen upon them.

"Christine, that fiend had poisoned your mind, broken it to bits. I believe he only let us go to trick us once more. And now he could make you think you were doing it of your own accord!"

"No, no, Raoul – "

"Oh, the monster! I'll kill him! Where is he now? Where are you living – Christine..." An obvious realisation came over the Vicomte, and he looked as though he felt horribly ill. "Christine... you said you were married to him..."

She cringed, knowing what he must be thinking. Why, why did it make her feel so vile, to see Raoul's disgust written so clearly across his boyish features?

"Oh God, Christine," Raoul moaned. "He... he's making you live with him as his wife, isn't he? Oh, my God... The beast, to do such a thing to a woman!"

Tears were running down her hot cheeks now. She fought to master herself, knowing that everything she was doing was only reinforcing Raoul's assumptions.

"Let... let me go, Raoul... please... you mustn't... I must go back to him. I am his wife," she whispered.

"No, you don't have to, Christine!" Raoul was now looking at her with an appalled pity that was unbearable. "Come away with me now, and I'll help you escape him! My poor Christine, how lucky that I saw you here today. I can save you now!"

"No, I can't escape from him – " Why, oh why had she phrased it that way? She was making it sound like she was Erik's prisoner again, and not a wife who wanted to be by her husband's side. "I mean, run from him. It – it would kill him – I mustn't – I can't – " She sobbed in frustration, as every word that came out of her mouth was surely making everything worse.

"Christine, Christine, it's all right, you don't have to explain!" cried Raoul frantically. "I know that he's controlling your mind! I _know_ , my dear. I know you can't think properly, and that he's broken your will, you told me on the rooftop, remember? You said that if you tried to tell me that you didn't want to leave Erik, that it was only that fiendish control of his talking, and I was to take no notice of what you said, and help you to flee him regardless."

Yes, yes she had said that, cowering in fear and confusion, shrinking away from the feelings Erik created in her and desperate for the promise of an ordinary, uncomplicated existence that Raoul offered. And now... now... oh, what had she done?

"Please, Raoul, please – " Should she tell him about the baby? Would that make him let her go? She imagined him stepping away from her in revulsion, and could not help but sob again. Just then, she wanted to pretend Erik had never so much as laid a finger on her, and she couldn't stand to say something that would so blatantly prove otherwise. Raoul's horror was making her feel filthy, sinful.

"Christine, you don't have to weep anymore, listen to me, your ordeal is over – "

" _Let go of me!_ "

"Ah!"

Desperate and unable to think of anything else to do, she had stamped on his foot. Raoul, startled, did let go, but as Christine was whirling away from him, she heard a voice.

"Here, what's all this?" Both their heads shot up, and turned to see a policeman making his way purposefully toward them, looking most displeased.

"What is this disturbance? This is a public park."

Christine seized her chance, picking up her skirts and darting away. Raoul bellowed her name and lunged for her, but the policeman grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Cease this behaviour at once, Monsieur!"

"Christine!" Raoul shouted after her fleeing figure. "Christine, I know you want me to get you away from him! I'll find you both, and I'll rescue you if I have to let myself be killed to do it!"

Distantly she heard the policeman say, "Now see here, young man, if the lady has chosen another fellow then you must leave it. She asked you to release her; be a gentleman about it!"

"No, no, you don't understand! Christine!"

"Monsieur, if you persist in this I shall have to..."

Christine did not hear what the policeman threatened Raoul with, for she was running as fast as she could and was already a good distance away. When she felt sure that Raoul would neither be able to catch her up nor find her, she ducked into a small clump of trees and panted, clutching the stitch in her side. She was out of breath, and shaking, as well as sweaty; it was a warm day. And she had left her parasol behind…and her glove too. Now her hand would be uncovered, all the way back home.

When her heart stopped racing, she pounded her fist against a tree trunk and began to cry helplessly again, hiccuping and trying to stop lest some other person see her. Why, oh why did Raoul have to happen upon her just now! This was the very last thing she had needed, to be forced to see his revulsion at the thought of her as Erik's wife! Raoul, just then, seemed to her to be representative of society in general, of everything good and solid and virtuous. She had wanted, once, to be a part of that, to be accepted among decent people.

And she had married a criminal. Not enough to be an actress, which assured her exclusion from the parlours of most already, but she had to go and pick Erik for a husband. They would never fit into the great mass of people who lived in respectable neighbourhoods and furnished their houses all alike, and worried over whether to set out three or four forks for each of their dinner guests. Erik would never be a conventional husband, going to the office every morning wearing his bowler hat and taking the family to the seaside on holidays. He could not fit into the bourgeois mould, despite his previously stated desire to do so. And as his wife, neither would she. In one fell swoop, she had cut herself off forever from any chance at doing so herself.

She took out her handkerchief and wiped her face, thinking wearily that she had never fitted that mould anyway. Not her with her nomadic childhood and her Scandinavian origins, with her love of old tales, or of the stage. For a brief time, and when she was terrified and bewildered, a "normal life" had held a certain amount of allure for her, and marriage to Raoul had seemed the way to achieve it. But she would have had to give up singing onstage to do so. No normal husband could hold up his head if his wife exposed herself in such a fashion; everyone would think he was surely a cuckold, since an actress could never be anything but a whore. And Erik, no matter how many times he insisted he wanted to be that normal husband, saw no reason at all why his hard work on her voice should go to waste. There was no chance that he would sanction her retiring from the stage before her time, even if she had wanted to do so. Which she didn't.

Christine blew her nose, imagining how hard it would have been to attend the opera anymore once she could no longer be a part of it. To never again feel the nervous excitement as the orchestra heralded her entrance; to never again be suffused with pride as her voice filled the auditorium; to never again know the thrill of an audience giving her a standing ovation. How dreadful.

She had better keep moving, and leave the park. What if Raoul had managed to escape the policeman, and was now looking for her again? She looked carefully about, and when she did not see him, she left the grove and headed toward the street, holding onto the damp handkerchief to partially disguise her bare hand. She was angry with herself now, even more than with Raoul or with Erik himself. Why had she stammered and sobbed like that? All such reactions had done were to make Raoul think that his supposition about Erik's treatment of her were true.

Were they?

No, no, they weren't! She shook her head as she walked, and things that she could have said to Raoul intruded irritatingly into her thoughts, useless now. Why had she not defended her husband? It was her duty as his wife. She could have said how changed he was, explained Erik's sudden willingness to let his captives go once he was shown the least little bit of kindness. She could have described her husband's taking her out in daylight if she wanted his company on her walks, and giving up extorting money from the managers when she asked him to. She could have talked of Erik's forcing himself to eat with her without his mask, or of his pitiful grovelling before her after she had begged him to tell her more of his past, and he had refused to do so. She had withdrawn her request, thinking that she could wait until he gained enough courage to unburden himself to her. She could have reminded Raoul that God rejoiced in a repentant sinner, and that it was not their place to judge someone, especially someone who was trying to be a better man.

He certainly hadn't been trying very hard last night.

Why did she have to think of that now? It was not helpful at all. She was Erik's wife, not Raoul's or any other, _normal_ man, and she must make herself see the good in him, must encourage him to find it himself. That was the task she had taken on when she agreed to marry him; to be a good and faithful wife to him, whatever his failings, and she had promised before God to do so. It was the wife's responsibility to safeguard the family's morals; surely it must be all the more so with this lost soul, who had no one else to help him make his way back into the light. God would expect it of her, even if by some miracle Erik no longer did, even if she annoyed him sometimes. He would have to live with her presence, just as she would with him. The only other option was to live separated, wasn't it?

She reached the street, and strode out onto it, passing by shops and people and carriages without seeing them. Separated... never to hear his voice again, never to know the joy that came when he coaxed her voice to heights she had never imagined. Never to see the hesitant softness in his eyes when he looked at her as though she were the only woman in the world, and by far the most beautiful. Never to listen to him explaining things out of his books to her, or telling her lovely stories of the East. Never to... never to feel the pleasure of his magician's hands on her. And of course, there was the child to think of now.

No, she must find a way to live as his wife. She knew she did not really want to be apart from him. That was why, against all reason, she had fled from Raoul and back to Erik. Being without him was inconceivable.

But Christine did not think she could bear being treated again as she had last night. True, some allowances must be made for Erik's lack of skill in dealing with other people, and his sometimes precarious grip on reality. But still, he had to cease such cruelty. She must, for the sake of her own sanity, find a way to make her husband see that he could never do that to her again. She had already tried tears, and appearing to take his words at face value. What else could she do?

Say similar things to him?

Momentarily, the thought was tempting, and she knew just what would work; nothing would cut him so deeply as if she said that she never wanted to see his hideousness again. But... no. She could not truthfully say that she would ever be able to bring herself to do such a thing. Not after the last few months of seeing him slowly, fearfully groping his way toward trusting her not to. No, she must think of something else, some chastisement that would not hurt her to enact more than it hurt him to receive it.

Her stomach growled, and she realised that she was very hungry. She halted and checked her watch. It was almost one o'clock. She did not want to go back home and deal with her husband just yet, though; she needed some more time to think. But she needed to eat, for the baby as well as for herself, and the sun was uncomfortably hot without a parasol to shade her. Coming from the cold North, she had never liked hot weather.

Why, Mama Valerius! Yes, that was a good idea. It had been nearly a week since she had visited her foster mother. She would go there and sit with her for a bit, and they could have lunch together. Yes. And hopefully, by the time she had to go home she would have thought of something to do to manage her husband.

O-O-O O-O-O

Author's Note: Folks, please do try not to be _too_ angry at Raoul. The poor boy is only twenty, and he doesn't understand anything about what's going on; and Christine did, flat out, tell him to ignore what she said! What's he _supposed_ to think?

And poor Christine is now stuck, once again, with not one but two men who think they know what's best for her! And then there's poor Erik, letting his temper imperil the best thing that's ever happened to him...

And we do still have one or two other canonical characters who haven't appeared yet. Much more story to come! Thank you for reading!


	20. Chapter 20

Hi all,

Thanks for sticking with this story. I'm sorry it's been so long since I've posted. October holds the anniversary of a traumatic event in my life, and it's been a rough month. I'm only just now climbing back out. I will try to start posting more often. Hope everyone likes this chapter, and I promise to post the next one this coming Saturday. I don't think you'd be too happy with me if I left you hanging for too long this time...

 _Chapter 20. July, 1887. Saturday afternoon to Saturday night._

Erik came awake instantly at the sound of the front door opening, but stopped himself this time from leaping to a defensive pose. He sat up slowly instead, and looked at Christine. She was taking off her hat, and her face was unreadable. She did not look particularly angry, which seemed to be a good sign, but then she did not look precisely happy, either.

"Did you have a pleasant walk?"

"Of course." He could tell nothing from her tone either. She was becoming skilled herself at the art of controlling one's voice. She walked over to the table on which the house plans lay and stared at them.

"What are these?"

"Plans for our new house. If you wish, we can go live aboveground."

She gave him a searching look for a long moment, then turned back to the blueprints. "You forgot to put in separate bedrooms."

A wave of horror hit him, and rendered him momentarily speechless.

"With a connecting door between them," she continued, still looking at the plans. "I understand that that is the done thing among the bourgeois. That sounds like a good idea for us; that way I won't bother you and you can come to me only when you feel like it."

She turned on her heel and went out of the room. He sank slowly into the chair he had sat in to draw up the plans, and put his head in his hands. Obviously the offer of the gift of a new house had not done the job. She did not care a jot that he was willing to live in the light of day once more for her sake. He could not tell whether she were serious about the separate bedrooms, or whether she was just attempting to wind him up like one of his clocks. His head hurt abominably.

Wearily, he got up again, sat at the piano and started to play the first notes of one of her favourite songs; then he heard the bedroom door shutting decisively, and water starting to run in the bathroom. His hands dropped limply away from the keyboard. If she had been inclined to appreciate this gesture, she would have come back into the room to listen to the music. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against his crooked arm on top of the piano. She had accused him of thinking she was a burden to him; it seemed now that he was nothing but a nuisance to her.

Christine came back attired in her wrapper again, and passed through the parlour and into the kitchen, not looking at him. When she did not come out again, after a while he went and investigated. He found his wife in the dining room eating a cold supper and reading. She refused to make eye contact with him. He realised he had not eaten all day. But she had not asked him to join her... well, she'd hardly do that now, would she? Silently he went into the kitchen and sliced himself some ham, grabbed an apple and some Brie, and sat down at the kitchen table to eat. Even if he might be able to get her to look at him if he joined her in the other room, he did not care to try to have a meal whilst sitting across from Medusa, just at the moment.

They passed the rest of the evening in similar and thoroughly unpleasant fashion, and when Christine headed for bed, Erik simply lay down on the couch again, dressing gown and all.

"Practising for the separate bedrooms already?" she said witheringly, as she went past him with her chin held high.

"I have seen no indication that I should do anything else," he shot back. She slammed the parlour door behind her.

Damn. Why had he lashed out like that? No doubt he had made things even worse now. He should have grovelled and asked her what would please her. His temper had gotten the better of him again. Would he never be able to bring it under control? He should not have married her if that were the case. He was selfish, and thoughtless, and he did not deserve to be married. Not to Christine, anyway.

He rolled over, putting his back to the door and her, and burrowed his twisted cheek into the pillows. He slid back into sleep, but this time it was a heavy, drug-like slumber, and he dreamed vividly.

 _"Christine, what do you mean by this?" He brandished her note at her._

 _Christine was standing in the hallway in her blue travelling suit, clutching a black leather valise and a felt hat. The setting sun was pouring its brilliance all around her and sending little points of light dancing through her hair, winking off her tortoise-shell rimmed spectacles._

 _"Erik, it's just what you saw in my note. Our marriage is over. I am leaving."_

 _He put his hand on the hall-tree to steady himself. His knees trembled. This was not, could not, be happening._

 _"Christine, no! Do not leave me! I can not bear to be without you! I am sorry for what I did!"_

 _"Sorry?" she snapped, obviously unmoved. "There's nothing you could say that could make this all right. It is not just about me any more, but about everyone else. You've been selfish one too many times. How could you? How could you refuse to come to their wedding?"_

 _"I was not thinking!" he protested. "You know I don't, sometimes! You married me knowing that!"_

 _"I married you thinking you were going to try to change," she corrected. "I married you thinking that you were going to force yourself to become the man you should have and could have been all along. Well, you didn't, and I'm tired of waiting. I'm going, and I never want to see your ugly face again."_

 _He staggered under the mortal blow. He would never have dreamed she would say such a thing, she who knew him better than anyone, who would know how such words would cut him to the very bone!_

 _"Christine... I beg you, Christine..."_

 _He heard the door slam, and knew that he had lost her irrevocably. Grief crashed over him, and he collapsed onto the Oriental hall carpet. Vaguely he saw before him his own hand with its ruby ring; his magician's hand with its long skilful fingers, that possessed so much talent and dexterity, empty and useless now. His mind and heart and soul were going with her, and he had nothing left._

 _Nothing._

He wept, knowing the tears would not help, and rocked from side to side. The cushion was incongruously smooth against his face; he clutched the corner of it hard. The light was blinding…why _were_ the lights on, in the daytime?

He blinked hard. For a moment he was unable to make sense of his surroundings, and then gradually his parlour, his real parlour, swam into view. Initially he could not grasp the sheer familiarity of it, and then he suddenly pressed his hand over his pounding heart.

He was here. At home, under the Opera House, not in that strange house that was not really his, not standing in its hallway watching his reason to live ebb away in Christine's wake. It had been a dream.

A dream, yes, but the pain of the dream-Christine's final words would not fade. It lingered, searing and burning. All at once he remembered the real Christine's words of that morning:

"Oh, God, the things you said to me! I'll never forget them!"

His heart felt as though it were cut in two. How was it possible that it still beat, there under his hand? And he had made Christine feel this way. His darling, his beloved, his _wife_. He had loved her for her sweetness and her innocence; why, why had he risked those? Innocence, once lost, was lost forever. He ought to have known that, better than anyone, he who had been treated with derision, rejection, and cruelty for so much of his life. Did he want to turn her into a bitter, vengeful creature like himself, she whom he had believed would be his saviour?

He shot up from the couch, strode across the room and ran to the bedroom. Its door was not locked this time.

"Christine! Christine..."

She sat bolt upright in bed. "What? What?"

As in the dream, he fell to the floor, kneeling a few feet away from the bed. His elbow hit the carpet, and he stretched out the other hand to her beseechingly.

"Christine, oh, Christine, how could I have said those things to you? How could I?"

"What – oh! You mean yesterday evening?"

"Yes! What else?" he groaned. "You were right. I truly am a monster. But oh, Christine, do not leave me, I beg you!"

"I wasn't planning on leaving you," she said crossly.

Desperately he clung to the lifeline of her words. His entire being was focused on keeping her with him. He could not lose her. It was unthinkable.

"Christine, tell me what to do! I'll do anything, say anything, only to have you love me again!"

"You have nerve, coming in here and waking me up to say _I've_ stopped loving _you_ ," she said with great asperity, "when you went to such lengths last night to convince me that it was you who did not love me!"

He cowered before her set mouth and her flinty eyes. "Yes, yes, Erik was a fool, an utter fool to have acted so rashly, but he loved his Christine all the time, and he did not know how to show his love, he has never known how!" The words spilled out of his twisted mouth, nonsensical but uncontrollable. "He knows only how to protect himself, and he lashed out without thinking! He is a fool and a monster!"

Erik realised vaguely that he was repeating himself and sounding like an idiot both, but it seemed unimportant in his frenzied need to make her understand. She had understood him before, when so few others ever had. Would she turn away from him now? He grovelled shamelessly, more than willing to give up his pride now. All pride had gotten him was the risk of losing her.

She slid her legs unexpectedly out of bed, stood up, and came to stand before him. Ecstatic at this, he seized the hem of her night-dress and kissed it penitently. She twitched it out of his grasp and took a step back, saying irritably, "Oh, stop it. You only do that to make me pity you enough to forget I'm angry with you. Well, it won't work."

He wrapped one arm about his head and pressed his face into the carpet, wishing there were some way of prostrating himself even further before her. "Then what... what shall I do?" he begged, sinking the fingers of his other hand into the rug's pile. "Tell me... please... Erik is too stupid to know what Christine needs. Christine, I will do anything to make you pleased with me again, but I do not know what it must be."

"Well," she said acerbically, "You might start by getting up off the floor. You look a sight."

"Erik always looks a sight," he muttered into the carpet. "He can not help it."

"Don't talk nonsense. It annoys me to see you there like that. Can you not at least bring yourself to look at me?"

All right, finally, there was something he could do that she wanted. He sat up and raised his eyes to her, standing there with her loose tresses framing her lovely face. At first he could only think of how dazzling she was, until slowly details became noticeable, and he saw that there was an avid, interested look in her eyes.

He tried again. "Christine, I had no business to say what I did. It was wrong."

"What was wrong?"

"Ahhh – what I said?"

"And what was that?"

With an inward groan he tried to remember what exactly he had said. Displaying a memory which he would greatly have preferred she did not possess just now, she would not be put off, but led him through each of his transgressions, one by one, demanding remorse for each. Dutifully he parroted the words he hoped she wanted him to say. Then he pleaded, "Christine, please, please let me do something to make amends."

"Such as?" she asked. She looked like Aphrodite, beautiful and untouchable, looming over him robed in white with her glorious hair tumbling over her shoulders. What offering would appease his goddess?

"Flowers?"

"Hah."

"Jewels?"

"No."

"A new dress?"

"What for? You won't bother to look at me in it."

"Singing?"

"Forget it. I know where you'd be hoping that led."

"A walk in the park on Sunday?"

"So you can show me off, I assume? Not likely."

It seemed his penance was not over. She was toying with him now, feline-like. Her pout was adorable.

"Well, what then?"

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes, and then, very deliberately, turned and walked back to the bed. Without a second look at him, she drew her nightgown off over her head, totally ignoring his soft sound of surprise, and sat down on the mattress, drawing her legs up onto it. She stretched her arms out and up languidly, arching her spine and letting her head fall backward so that her breasts jutted out and her hair swept across her bare back. A sudden, lurid memory image hit him, of the last time she had assumed that pose; a second later her outstretched palms had hit the mattress. But he had better not try anything of that sort right now.

"I'm very tense, Erik. All my muscles ache."

All her – oh. She meant to torture him, then. So be it.

"Lie down on your stomach then," he responded, and was grateful for the years he had spent training himself to have such supreme control over his voice that he could keep the desire out of it even at a time like this. He rose from his supplicant's position.

She arranged herself artfully on the bed, peeking at him as she did so. Refraining from making comment, he sat beside her and massaged her muscles, using the techniques he knew she liked. He did not allow his hands to slip to the soft areas of her body that tempted him, nor let them wind through her beautiful hair. After a while, she signed and turned onto her back, increasing his torment, and ordered, "Now my feet."

He moved lower on the bed, and did as she asked. He kept his eyes strictly on his task, knowing she'd see the lust in them if he glanced up. Then he wondered suddenly if he'd be in worse trouble if she thought he didn't want her. He allowed himself one longing look as a test, and when he met her triumphant stare, he knew that that had been exactly what she wanted. He was unable then to stop himself from pressing a reverent kiss to her delicate instep.

She shifted slightly on the bed and made a sound that he knew indicated pleasure. Encouraged, he did it again, thinking that he could stay like this forever, kneeling and worshiping at the feet of his queen like the dog he was. He kissed her ankle, then her calf. She snatched her foot away, and said peevishly, "I shouldn't let you touch me, you know."

"Then why did you ask for a massage?"

A long look passed between husband and wife. Finally Erik ventured to say tentatively, "You wore your perfume last night."

"I did." Her tone offered him nothing. He tried again, afraid that he was being rash but nearly vibrating with the desire to know what she was thinking.

"I have been neglecting you."

"That presumes I want your attentions," she purred.

"You could stop me if you chose."

"I still might," she said archly. "You're not to touch me, remember."

That was unmistakably a challenge. And one which any other man would not have been able to meet.

But then, no other man had his voice.

O-O-O O-O-O


	21. Chapter 21

Hi folks,

Well, I'm managing to get this chapter up by 6 am my time on Sunday morning... pretty close to doing it on Saturday night, I hope? I wanted very much to post this last night, but the two year old refused to go to sleep until midnight.

Here you are, though. Don't read this chapter at work...

 _Chapter 21. July, 1887. Saturday night continued._

He began to sing again, very softly and enticingly this time. As she became gradually wrapped in a hazy fog of sound, Christine's body relaxed even more, and she started to move restlessly on the bed, sighing. He added further sensuousness to his timbre, doing deliberately now that which he had done somewhat inadvertently before. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he could have had other women throughout the long years of loneliness, if he had been willing to use his voice to seduce them. Oh, he'd thought of it, all right; but he'd never been able to bring himself to act on his tortured suppositions. It didn't matter now, anyway. He did not want anyone but Christine.

She was twisting to and fro now, gasping, her nipples erect and her thighs trembling. She was very close. He moved his voice around, making it seem as though he were now on top of her, now at her breasts, now sliding up her thighs. She arched her back, and he had all he could do not to reach out and seize her. He channelled the urge through his voice, though, and made his song ever more erotic and insistent.

Success. Christine's body spasmed suddenly, and she cried out with pleasure, her face screwed up and her hands clenching into fists and releasing repeatedly. When she collapsed back onto the pillows, he crawled up to stretch out beside her, propping his head on one hand. He still did not touch her.

"Did you enjoy that?" he whispered.

She blinked lazily at him, and remarked, "Maybe."

"Was it what you wanted?"

She shrugged one shoulder.

For God's sake. "Ahhh... should I promise never to compose again?"

She sat up abruptly, and said "What?" He repeated the offer.

"No, of course not!"

That was a good thing, as he'd been bluffing anyway. He was fairly certain that that was something he would not actually be able to do, even if he wanted to. She looked him over, and said, "I would never ask you to do that. I don't want you to give up composing, ever. What makes you think I would not want to hear your music ever again? Please don't do that."

"But it caused you pain."

"Not – not at first. But eventually, when you wouldn't look at me or even speak to me, I thought you might be ignoring me because you were upset with me over something. I worried and worried about it, and then I started to think, maybe I wasn't being a good wife to you. So I thought maybe you were disappointed that I didn't cook much. A wife is supposed to cook."

"You thought – what? Christine, did you forget who you are married to? Have I ever expressed anything of the sort? Since when do I even enjoy food in the first place? Of all the things I might be displeased with you about, why would you think that might be one of them?" He was about to confess heedlessly that he had withdrawn from her because he was sick with fear that she had lost interest in him, and could think of no other non-violent way to react, but before he could she went on.

"Because I couldn't think of anything else it might be. I thought over everything, and I just couldn't find anything else I might be doing wrong. I've tried so hard to be a good wife to you."

He was momentarily distracted.

"You are a good wife to your Erik," he insisted. He brought his hand up to stroke her cheek, then drew back. She had not said he was allowed to touch her yet. "Erik has no complaints whatever. He never expected he would have any sort of wife, let alone one that is as pretty and sweet and kind as Christine. She is perfect in every way."

"That's not what you said earlier. You said I was interfering, and stupid, and you called me a... a... I can't even say the word you used."

"I am sorry," he repeated, for what felt like the thousandth time. Wasn't she done exacting apologies from him yet? Weakly he had another go. "That was unpardonable of me. Let me make this up to you, Christine. Erik will try his hardest. He is new at this business, but he has learned fast."

"What will you do?" she asked, intrigued despite herself.

"Anything you like. Only ask, and I will do it. Or... hmm... or is Erik supposed to guess, perhaps?"

"Go ahead," she said, in a tone that was unmistakably another challenge. "Guess."

"As you wish, but... my options will be considerably limited if I can not touch you." He held his breath, waiting. She looked long and hard at him, and then said, in a tone of feigned indifference, "Well, go on then, if you must."

With difficulty he restrained himself from giving a sigh of relief, all the while wondering why women did this. Why did they play coy and beat about the bush, using words with second meanings which only they knew? It would be so much faster and more efficient for Christine simply to state what she wanted when she wanted it. But no. She was far more inclined to operate this way. He'd fallen into the trap of being "supposed to know" many times already, and had learned to be thoroughly wary of it. But tonight, he needed to do whatever she wanted, and if she wanted him to try and fail so she could scold him some more, well then so be it. He deserved it, anyway.

There could be no doubt that he was at a definite disadvantage. He was woefully inexperienced for what a man of his age should have been, and he was still plagued by constant doubts as to whether she really wanted and enjoyed his touch. Most of the time he could manage to push those thoughts aside during actual intimacy. Sometimes he couldn't. Most men had a difficult enough time as it was determining what a woman wanted, and poor Erik had had so very little practice at that.

He reached out, half-afraid of rejection again, and when it did not come he ran a hand from her shoulder to her thigh, feeling the marvellous springy softness of her. He shifted on the bed to take her tentatively into his arms, and she allowed him to. As he dipped his head and kissed the spots of her throat where she loved to be touched, he thought of how awe-inspiring it was that a woman could be brought to climax again and again and again. She seemed to have an infinite capacity to enjoy physical love, which was odd considering that it was supposed to be far more important to a man than to a woman. Why was that? Were other husbands simply not willing to put the effort into pleasing their women? Why would any man want to miss out on this exquisite joy of touching a woman all you liked, this thrill of pleasuring your beloved over and over, leaving her boneless and satiated in the marriage bed? Was he just different from other men? He didn't know. Perhaps he never would.

Besotted, he lavished affection on her breasts, making involuntary little murmurs of delight in his throat. God, to be allowed to embrace her again... She was responding to him, mewing and winding her fingers in his hair. Elated, he straightened up and kissed her sweet mouth, taking his time about it and wondering just how long it had been since he'd last done so. She pulled his shirt out of his trousers and shoved at the shoulders of his dressing gown.

So he was to remain a married man after all. He helped her get his clothes off, then drew her down to lie on the bed, pressed the entire length of his body joyfully against hers and hungrily kissed her again. She kissed him back eagerly, her tongue caressing his. The ready yielding of her mouth made him think of when she yielded to him another way, and for a moment it was all he could do to prevent himself from sliding inside her. He held her even tighter against him; she wriggled away just a little and slid a hand down to grasp him. Fighting down the urge to let her continue what she appeared to be starting, he pulled it away and held it over her head, saying reprovingly, "Christine, behave," as he bent his head to her breasts again. She arched to him, sliding her legs back and forth through the sheets. Fervently he pressed kisses down the length of her body, and when he reached her inner thighs, she gasped, "Husband, please!"

"Ah, Erik has figured it out," he answered, letting go of her wrist and shifting till he lay between her legs, the soft curls between them a little flame against his stomach as he returned to her breasts to kiss their tender undersides. "He thought that might be what Christine wanted."

She reached down and clasped one of his hands with hers. He slid down a little, and drew his tongue along one of her ribs. She writhed, and kicked him in the side. He did it again, on the other side, and then found himself laughing low in his throat at the strangled noise she made. It was good to laugh again.

More kisses down her stomach, and then he sat up and began to run his hands over her legs. She made a disappointed sound, and he said, partly in jest and partly in awe, "So impatient."

"I've had to wait days," she informed him. "I wanted you before I even put dinner on the table last night, and I waited till I had everything ready – not that that did any good."

"Erik is sorry," he answered inanely again, not having any other words at the ready, and kissed the inside of her ankle again. He moved slowly up her legs, adoring their warm silken skin with his lips and tongue, as she made little squeaking noises that pleased him greatly. He stroked the backs of her knees with his fingers, and she jerked and nearly kneed him in the mouth.

"Please do not knock out your husband's teeth, Christine."

"You'll get worse than that if you don't keep going," she threatened, thrashing. "I can't bear it."

"Do you not want it to last as long as possible?" he murmured, now worshiping the delectable smoothness of the insides of her thighs.

"No, " she said rudely. "Hurry up." She kicked him again. He determined to tantalize her for as long as possible, and began to lay kisses across just the very top of the dark gold curls between her legs. He would never forget his shock the first time he discovered that a woman, any woman, might not only allow, but even enjoy, his hideous deformity this close to her most intimate areas. And to have it be his Christine...

Christine wasn't merely allowing, she was demanding. She arched violently up against his mouth, and he touched her with his tongue, exquisitely lightly. She made a deep, feral noise in the back of her throat, and a dark thrill raced through him. He explored delicately, never quite giving her the firmness of touch that he knew she wanted, until she howled, "Erik!" At last, he took up the necessary rhythm, and sure enough, in seconds she was at the peak again.

This time, she was not incapable of movement, but pulled at him as the spasms subsided, her grip surprisingly strong. It was the most natural thing in the world then, to rise up over her and let himself fall into the safe haven of her body.

For a moment, he simply stayed frozen, desperate to begin moving yet wanting to prolong the sheer physical joy of being inside her. He listened to Christine's contented purrs as she adjusted herself and wound her legs about his waist. So... that was how she wanted it, then. As always, he was no more than a slave to her, and he began to thrust slowly, going as deeply inside her as he could with each movement. Her hands slid up and down his back, over the whip scars, and she bit his shoulder. He groaned and pressed his malformed cheek against her smooth one, fighting the urge to move faster. But it had been so long, what if he could not wait... She pulled his head up and gave him a long, wonderful kiss. His control shattered beyond repair, and he seized her hip, digging his fingers into the flesh that maddened him with its softness. Her nipples were little hard points against his chest, her thighs slid against his, and it was all just too much.

Everything was over embarrassingly fast, and as he gasped for breath, face buried in her hair, he managed to mutter, "Sorry."

She said nothing, but merely lay motionless until he rolled off of her and laid his cheek against her shoulder, draping his arm over her waist and pulling her close. They lay together quietly for a time, and Erik was beginning to doze, mostly involuntarily, when Christine roused him by the simple expedient of digging him in the ribs with her elbow. He blinked, and then felt his leg being caressed insistently .

He understood that his duties were not over for the night. She was not satisfied – well, no wonder, since he'd been unable to hold out long enough. A woman's desire seemed so very deep, incomprehensible to a mere man. Then he wondered whether that was another thing that other men were accomplished at, whereas he was not. Sometimes he feared that Christine expected him to be an expert lover, when he felt himself to be anything but. Composition, architecture, mathematics, foreign languages, science, ventriloquism, sleight of hand, clockworks; the list of his skills was long, but not long enough. Not now that he was married. And he was so much older than she... his vitality was strong still, but could only decrease from here, whereas hers glowed brightly. And it likely would for years. He must learn as many ways as possible of pleasing her.

He ran a hand down her thigh, wondering what else she wanted, and she pushed him to his back and draped herself over him, kissing him passionately. He cupped her face between his palms, enjoying the feel of her skin, and responded in kind. When she drew back, she rested her weight on one elbow, and laid the fingers of her other hand on his throat.

"Here lies the secret of your voice," she whispered. "It fascinates me endlessly."

"And here you hold its power in your hand," he whispered back. "And if you chose to squeeze, you would destroy that power in a moment."

"As you did to me when I attacked you when you told me about your torture chamber?" she challenged. He barely had time to think, _oh no, not this again,_ when she suddenly moved her hand away from his throat, reached down and did squeeze, albeit lightly. He tensed automatically. He didn't _think_ she would tighten her fingers any more, but then she had been exceedingly angry with him.

"And what about this power?" she teased. "Is it as fragile? Which would be worse, if I were to squeeze here or there?"

"I decline to say," he said formally, thinking privately that this was one situation where it was utterly impossible for a man to retain any dignity whatsoever. "Would you let go of me, woman?"

She did let go, but then moved her hand up just a few inches and closed it again. "You don't mind if I squeeze you here," she stated.

"No, I – I must admit I do not."

"In fact... you seem to like it very much."

Erik rather thought this ought to have gone without saying, what with the... ample evidence she had readily to... hand. Then she changed her grip, and began to slide her hand up and down rhythmically.

"And how about this?"

"Christine..." As usual when in the marriage bed with his wife, his ability to form a coherent sentence was rapidly diminishing, and then it disappeared completely, all at once, when she shifted position and exchanged her hand for her mouth. What seemed like all the blood in his head rushed in the other direction as fast as it could, the priorities obvious. He gripped handfuls of her hair, unable to stop himself from crying out.

"Christine – Christine – oh – "

For all he knew, it could have been five minutes or an hour before she eventually pulled away, and the marvellous sensations stopped abruptly. He was on the point of protesting, when she threw a round feminine leg over him, and with her teeth sunk endearingly in her lower lip in anticipation, eagerly impaled her body on his.

Erik sighed with pleasure at being inside her again. He was fairly certain he could manage the job again; it had been just as long for him as for her, after all, and in any case his body seemed determined to make up for lost time and did not generally have any trouble rising to the occasion, as it were, twice in a single evening. So far as he knew, his age should have prevented that, but it did not seem to, not at present at least. Perhaps later on, especially if she insisted upon wearing him out in this fashion... well, there were plenty of worse ways to expire. And he would certainly die a happy man, which was something he had never expected to do.

Christine also seemed disinclined to waste any time, and was writhing atop him in a manner whose wantonness he found erotic in the extreme. Gasping, he set his hands on her heaving hips, fondled the lovely curves there, and then reached up to her breasts. She moaned and leaned into his touch in a most gratifying way, and bent down to kiss him again.

Kissing her while being simultaneously inside her always threatened to undo him entirely. He gritted his teeth, thinking silently that he could not embarrass himself a second time in one night. A man must have some fortitude, after all. But, oh, please, let her finish quickly...

She seized one of his hands and brought it between her legs. Chagrined that he had not thought to do this himself and thankful to have something to do to take his mind off his own need, he set to work immediately, and blissfully watched the way she rode his fingers, her skin flushing beautifully. Her hair made a glorious halo around her, and he reached up to touch it, sinking his free hand into the curls at the back of her head. She arched her neck, then the rest of her, panted, moaned, and went to pieces atop him and around him. He fought to keep his eyes open long enough to watch her experience her climax, when they wanted only to drift shut at the exquisite sensation of her body spasming around his. It was very nearly enough, but not quite.

Christine collapsed across his chest. Contrary to what he wanted to do, which was to flip her onto her back and reach his own pleasure again in a short, hard flurry of thrusts, instead he held her gently and rubbed her back, feeling her heart thump madly against his own, until it gradually slowed and calmed.

"More, beloved?" he questioned softly, stroking her hair.

"No... I don't think so," she murmured against his chest. "Go on."

He kissed the top of her head gratefully, clasped her to him, and spun them about. Her hair fanned out across the pillow when her head hit it. Afterward, he stretched out beside her, breathing hard. Christine sighed happily, and then flipped over onto her stomach, her eyes bright and a general air of suppressed excitement about her.

"Erik?"

"Hmmm?" he managed to say. The fatigue of going for two nights with next to no sleep was hitting him again. His eyes burned dully and his bones seemed intent on dissolving, and he hoped that this was not going to be one of those nights when passion, far from exhausting Christine as it did him, instead energized her into wanting to have a long drawn-out conversation. He really was terribly tired.

"Erik... I have something to tell you."

O-O-O O-O-O


	22. Chapter 22

In which Erik gets some good advice. Will he listen to it?

Hi folks. Apologies again for the long wait for this chapter. My life is complicated right now, but things should settle down after the first of the year. Thank you for sticking with this story!

 _Chapter 22. July, 1887. Saturday night to Sunday morning._

"I am going to have a baby. Isn't it wonderful! I never thought it would happen this quickly! And you're as surprised as I am, aren't you? I've wondered for a bit, you see, and so I went to the doctor two – no, wait, it was three days ago now. And he said yes, and that I'm very healthy and everything should be fine, and oh, Erik – " Christine went on excitedly, but her husband was not listening to her, being wholly preoccupied elsewhere.

Ah, yes, there it was, his heart. It had not stopped after all, though for a brief second it had been giving every indication of doing so. He had shot to a sitting position when she gave her revelation, and Christine had followed suit.

"Erik?..Erik?" With great difficulty he managed to focus on Christine's face. She was looking at him with trepidation now. He must master himself just at present. She had appeared so happy when she told him; he did not want to be the one who extinguished that light in her face.

"Christine, I... I do not know what to say." Which was perfectly true. Apparently it was enough, however, because she suddenly threw her arms around his neck and pressed her smooth cheek against his twisted one. He wrapped his own arms around her. At least now she could not see his expression, and he could let it reflect his true feelings for the moment.

What were his feelings, precisely?

Fear. Yes, that was definitely there. Fear of himself no longer being important to her because she would inevitably focus on the baby, fear that he would not measure up to whatever her idea of a good father was – or to her memories of her own father, perhaps? Fear for her life, too. God, women did die in childbirth sometimes, didn't they? He tightened his arms around her, wishing he could fight dragons for her; but this trial was one she would have to undergo alone. He would not be able to do it for her, nor even be there during the final struggle. He had never felt so dreadfully powerless. He decided instantly that if she died, he would throw himself straight into the Seine.

There, that was one decision made. Bizarrely, he felt reassured by the knowledge that if the worst happened, he would have a plan in place, and there would no agonizing over which course of action to take. The fear receded, just a little, and a quivering wonderment took pre-eminence next. He had dreamed of having children by her before. It had been during the terrible months he had spent locked in the unyielding grip of his ghastly, sickening obsession with her, when he had fantasized of all the ways in which marriage to her would prove, once and for all, that he was worthy of being a human. His fracturing mind had spiralled further and further away from any vestige of reality, as he pictured a bevy of perfect, beautiful children who adored him and looked up to him, who would undoubtedly inherit his skills and be able to put them to better uses than he had. Sunshine and roses always surrounded his feverish imaginings, and the images that his brain conjured were of a patently impossible perfection... he and Christine sharing one mind and never disagreeing, the world willingly accepting him, and their marriage, their family life never being anything but joy and love.

But his fantasy had finally ended, splintered around the spear of her kiss, and the madness that dogged him, perpetually ready to overpower his more rational side at the least sign of weakness, had begun to recede. The piercing reality of being actually married had shown him, as nothing else might have, just how absurd his dreams had been, and how little he understood of how to be joined to another. His experiences of family had been nearly all awful; and since his childhood, he had not really interacted with others on any level apart from those of either business or manipulation and terrorizing. Madame Giry and the daroga were the only two exceptions to this, but of course those relationships – if such a word could legitimately be used to describe them – were not a marriage. He could bend objects to his will, and music, and even knowledge itself, but a wife... someone whose mind worked on its own, and frequently in ways which he could not hope to comprehend, someone with her own wants and needs, and dislikes, and quirks; that was an entirely separate thing, and it could be both thrilling and terrifying. With Christine's constant presence, her sweetness and goodness surrounding the both of them, he had begun to comprehend just how warped his own mind was. He had always been aware that he did not think like most others, of course, but had chalked it up to merely the supposed stupidity and hypocrisy of the rest of humanity. He assumed that the violence and bitterness of his life stemmed from his mistreatment at the hands of others; anyone, he thought, would have reacted as he did, if they had his face. He was not responsible for the actions he had been forced to take. He'd been born with certain talents in recompense for his face, and he would use them as necessary to survive. What else could he be expected to have done?

But it was impossible for even him to believe that Christine would act in the same fashion he had, for any reason. Nothing could have induced her to kill, or even to commit his lesser crimes of extortion, kidnapping, or torture. Why, she had even agreed to wed a monster in order to save the life of the Vicomte and the myriad denizens of the Opera up above them, who were wholly ignorant of her sacrifice for them! And she had kissed him, him of all people, and while he was in the process of attempting to carry out those dreadful murders. Forced finally to see that he could not claim to love her while putting her in that position, he'd set her free.

And then she had come back, of her own accord this time, and that had made all the difference. When it was her own choice, he could marry her with a clear conscience, let her take him to her bed, live with her, keep her with him always. And he could not be sorry that he had done so, even if at times she drove him mad and it seemed impossible to understand her or to be a good husband to her. And if marriage was so different from what he had thought it might be... what would having a child be like?

Christine was still talking. Had she ever stopped? Probably not. At some point she was going to expect a response out of him, and woe betide him if she realised he had barely heard a word of what she was saying. He tried to focus on the sound of her voice, but the words slid around him like so many eels, and he could not grasp all of their meaning.

"... so happy... always wanted... know you'll be... live above ground now?"

There, that was something that made some sense. He snatched at it feebly.

"You want to live above ground, Christine?"

"Oh, yes," she said enthusiastically. "It's sort of... fairy-tale-ish, living underground, and your rooms are lovely, and it's nice to be based here, in the heart of the city. But I miss the sun and the wind, and birds singing, and the tunnels are so cold and dark, even the one that gets you outside quickly – and anyway we can't keep a child underground like this! Where will it run and play? You remembered about getting a real house, too, didn't you, isn't that why you were designing it? Where shall we put the nursery? We'll have to have one, of course."

"Ah... I'll... see to it."

"You'll have to keep your laboratory well locked up, we simply can't have the baby getting into the sorts of things you keep in there. You could design a lock that couldn't be opened, I know you could. Maybe one on the music room door, too, I know you wouldn't like anything in there being damaged."

In horror, he pictured his piano scratched and damaged, the strings of his Stradivarius snapped, and scores torn to bits by a destructive child. If that child took after him to any degree, it would undoubtedly wreak havoc from the cellar to the attic.

If the child took after him at all, surely Christine would hate it, as his father had hated him.

Marvellous. There was something else to worry about. He hadn't yet thought about the fact that the child just might have the misfortune to resemble its sire. Christ, what then? How could he burden Christine with a monster for a child? How could he have been so selfish as to risk it?

But... but she'd wanted him to... and he'd wanted... Everything was too much. He was desperately tired, and the shock of Christine's news wasn't helping a bit. Without meaning to, he swayed, eyes drifting closed.

Instantly Christine was all solicitousness, helping him lie down, pulling up the blankets, fussing that he needed some rest and they could talk about this just as well in the morning, couldn't they, and she was tired too, here, she'd just curl up next to him and...

Soon she was fast asleep. Erik, however, was not so lucky, and lay staring at the ceiling, mind whirling in useless circles, until his fatigue overcame him and, without meaning to, he slipped into sleep as well. He slept restlessly, with strange dreams that he could not remember when he woke as Christine was getting out of bed.

"Up already?" he asked blearily.

"Yes. Go back to sleep for a while, I'll wake you later."

He dozed off again, till he woke once more, reached out for her, and remembered she was already up. Yes, he could hear her clattering about in the kitchen. Eventually she came and informed him that breakfast was almost ready, and kissed him sweetly; he got out of bed, washed and dressed quickly, and came obediently to the table. Doing so was going to have to be a sacred duty from now on.

Christine was enthusiastically cleaning her plate and chattering on some more about the baby. Erik concentrated on his coffee cup, and crumbled a bit of bread onto his plate. Fortunately his wife did not seem to require much in the way of responses out of him, and when she was finished, she hopped up, cleared the table and refilled his cup for him, and then bustled out of the room. He sat morosely, staring at the table without seeing it, till she came back attired in a rose silk day dress trimmed with matching satin, and white lace pleated at her neck and wrists. Her best feather-trimmed hat was pinned securely to her coiled hair. Smiling beautifully, she swooped over to embrace him again.

"Where are you going?" he asked, taken aback.

"Why, to Mass of course!" she responded, looking surprised. "It's Sunday. Did you forget? Yes, of course you did, you were composing. Whatever am I going to do with you?" She patted him on the head, which he hated, and sailed out, radiating happiness.

Erik exhaled slowly. Where was all this energy coming from? He thought pregnancy was supposed to be hard...

Pregnancy. Oh God. He got up, intending to go out and take his mind off the immediate crisis by some form of vigorous physical activity. Perhaps he should go and inspect Box Five? Or climb through the flies? Or maybe even head all the way up to the roof? By the time he got back home again after that, he might well be so worn out that he wouldn't be able to think at all, which would be all to the good. He wasn't getting any younger, and having a female in the house was sapping his capabilities... in more ways than one.

Did everything have to make his mind circle back around to the damnable predicament they were now in? Scowling ferociously, he put on his cloak, hat and mask and stalked out of the house. As he turned to lock the door, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

"Confound it, daroga, don't you know better by now than to startle me?"

"Of course I do. Why do you think I was keeping well back and out of your range?"

"The day you learn what my range really is, Mihr of Mazanderan, will be the day hell freezes over. What the devil do you want anyway? If you're here to give me one of your damned moralizing lectures, you can just head right back out. I warn you I'm in no mood for it."

"Not at all, I came to see how you were, as I have not seen you for over two weeks."

"Yes, well, it was a lovely holiday, that's true – "

"Your manners are as above reproach as always. And how is Madame Phantom today?"

"Go to hell."

"I see you are unusually cheerful today. And what has brought this on?"

" _Daroga_. Out."

"Do you know, I think you've put on weight. I believe being married is good for you."

"That's all you know!" snapped Erik. "It will certainly not be good for my sanity, I assure you, nor my peace and quiet, nor my pocketbook, nor, no doubt, Christine's health."

The Persian's eyes became keen. "Oh? Why?"

Erik was silent.

"May I be so forward as to guess that congratulations are due?"

"Why on earth would one offer them? I tell you, daroga, I'm not ready for this."

"No one ever is," said Mihr. "But you might have thought of that before you risked just such a blessed event occurring."

"Still the old policeman. I don't even have to come right out and tell you, do I?"

"No, I can spare you that indignity. It was not a difficult thing to surmise. I would not have expected it to happen quite so soon, but I suppose one must make allowances for – shall we say, your adoration of her?"

Erik glowered darkly and snarled, "Will you go away now that your vulgar curiosity is satisfied?"

"I'm parched from that long walk down here. Invite me in and give me some tea, and then maybe I'll leave you in peace."

When they were sitting in Erik's parlour, teacups in hand, the Persian looked keenly at his old friend and said, "May I hazard a guess that you are somewhat... unsettled by this news?"

"Unsettled. I suppose that is one word you could use for it."

"Well, you must not be angry, as I have heard of no dropped chandeliers lately – "

"I thought I told you I was not responsible for that."

"Surely you don't honestly think that I believed you? Do I look stupid to you?"

"As you've gone to the trouble of asking, I must say – "

"Wait; on second thought, do not answer that. To return to the original topic of conversation: you must not be angry, nor jealous either, as Christine is apparently allowed to come and go as she pleases, given your explanation that you have permitted her to go to Mass today."

"Christine is perfectly free to 'come and go as she pleases,' just as I told you before, and you did not believe me then."

"I know you too well. After all these years you have still not learned not to try to get your excuses past 'the old policeman.' I always could see right through them, you know."

Erik glared. That particular expression of his had been known to reduce strong men to tears; the daroga, however, had known Erik for decades, through palace intrigues, travels, the escape from the shah, and of course the more recent events at the Opera, and was therefore a good deal less susceptible than most. Undeterred, he went on, "And you are not melancholy, as you were obviously going out somewhere and not lying on a divan moaning that you wished you were dead."

"If I were you, daroga, I would not point out to someone _who happens to be an extremely skilled assassin_ that I was the one person who had seen him in assorted highly embarrassing moments. Think what a relief it would be to me to know that I would never be forcibly reminded of them again."

"Don't be ridiculous. Who would you complain to if I were not around? Surely you don't burden your new bride in such a fashion."

"On occasion, yes. I thought a husband and wife were supposed to share things?"

"Only suitable things. Let women air their complaints to others of their sex, and men to theirs. It works much better that way."

"Do not presume to judge my marriage, you damned foreigner. Don't think I do not remember the way women are treated in your country. You Orientals may do just as you like, but I want a true meeting of minds with my Chris – with Christine."

"Hah," said Mihr, with immense satisfaction. "The truth comes out amid all your posturing. You lecture me as if you were one of those absurd women's rights advocates, and yet you reflexively describe her as 'yours'. And as for the customs of my country, Persia is far more lenient with its females than many another nearby society, and well you know it."

"Splitting hairs, daroga. Just because you let the court ladies sit behind screens and listen to political discussions, and have an education if they like, that does not mean that they are allowed anything like as much freedom as Frenchwomen. When was the last time you saw a harem around here?"

"I would imagine that, just after that regrettable debacle on the rooftop, you might have been fully in favour of our method of keeping the women locked up and out of trouble. But then, you appeared to be trying our custom out for yourself, and more than once too."

"I did nothing of the sort. I merely attempted to persuade her that I was the better choice than that fop of a Vicomte. All right, so my methods were perhaps a trifle eccentric, but when have you ever known me to do something in any other fashion?"

" 'Eccentric,' " muttered the Persian. "You don't say. And correct me if I am wrong, but I believe the word 'fop' indicates a man who is excessively concerned with his own appearance? Because if that describes anybody – "

" _Daroga_. I'm warning you."

Erik was prevented from acting upon the warning by one of his alarm bells going off. He leaped up, for once actually relieved, and headed for the door.

" _Erik_. Don't you dare," said his persecutor.

"Oh, come off it, you dolt, what do you take me for?"

"If you must know, I take you for an only occasionally sane and only partially reformed fugitive from the law."

"Old friend, you wound me. I shan't harm whoever it is; I am a changed man now, remember? Likely it's only a rat, and if not I shall use this." He waved the small vial of the Mazanderan perfume that he carried with him in a hidden pocket, wrapped snugly in the handkerchief that would be required should he have need to use the drug. "I will be back shortly and we can resume this fascinating discourse. Feel free to peruse my bookshelves. Don't mind that mirrored room over there, it's nothing to fear..."

" _Erik_!" the Persian called after his retreating black-cloaked back. "I thought you dismantled that thing right after you were married!"

"Oh, I did. I just wanted to see if you were paying attention."

O-O-O O-O-O

Author's Note: As "the Mazanderan perfume" is a fairly minor detail in Leroux, I thought I ought to explain it here. In the book, Erik actually drugs Christine the first time she comes down to the underground house, or "the Phantom's Lair," as stage show fans know it. We aren't ever told exactly what this "perfume" is, only that it seems to render people nearly unconscious and incapable of resisting. Erik uses the same substance to subdue Raoul before locking him up, after Christine agrees to be Erik's wife and the prisoners in the torture chamber are freed (but before the kiss which changes everything). Leroux's sequence of events is sometimes quite different from Andrew Lloyd Webber's, and the musical overshadows every other version, even the original, to such an extent that it can sometimes be difficult to remember the differences. Case in point; while writing the earlier chapters of this story, my beta reader had to point out to me that nowhere in Leroux is Christine ever mentioned as being made to put on a wedding dress! I had completely forgotten that, despite having read the book multiple times and referring back to it while writing.


	23. Chapter 23

Hi all, here is the next chapter. I hope you like it; writing Erik/Persian repartee is one of my favourite things about POTO fanfic!

 _Chapter 23. July, 1887. Sunday morning (continued)._

When Erik returned, having discovered that the intruder had indeed been only a rat, and feeling that he was getting entirely too old for this and perhaps a normal house above ground was an even better idea than he'd previously thought, he found the Persian comfortably ensconced in an armchair and perusing a book of brightly coloured maps.

"All well?" asked Mihr, raising a salt-and-pepper eyebrow.

"Yes. I see you found your book."

"When I lent it to you I did not expect it to be a year before I had it back. I have missed it."

"My apologies," said Erik sarcastically. "I was rather busy for part of that time, if you will recall."

"What did you expect when you took up teaching at your age?"

"Yes, well, the Opera Ghost's duties are fairly light. Perhaps I was bored."

"I would expect as much after your, shall we say, _exciting_ youth?"

"I suppose that is one word which could be used," said Erik, bending down to start a fire in the grate. "If one wanted to commit a gross understatement."

"You'd had a good many adventures, after all, and you always did get bored easily."

"Not at all; the human race is merely inclined toward tediousness in general. I was simply reacting to that." Setting the matches back down on the mantel, Erik inquired, "More tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

When fresh tea was brewed and both cups refilled, Mihr fixed Erik with a gimlet eye and said, "How are you, really, Erik? Are you happy about the child?"

"I... I do not know," Erik admitted. "I am more shocked than anything; or at least I was. The more time passes, the more I am able to think, and that is not altogether a good thing. I never expected this to ever even be a possibility, much less a reality. Surely you know that."

"If you honestly did not want children, you might have thought of that before taking a wife. The one does tend to follow the other. I did not think you needed to be told that, but perhaps I was wrong and we should have had a brief conversation before the vows were said?"

"As if you would have done anything other than call in your colleagues in the Surete to have me clapped in irons on the spot, had I shown up on your doorstep with such a request the morning after I dropped you there insensible! Daroga, your pitiful attempts at humour are not helpful. I do not _know_ whether I want children or not," snapped Erik, setting his teacup down hard into its saucer so that they clinked together. "The thing is done and the decision is made now. I do not require you to tell me that I have been a reckless idiot these last three months. I am quite aware of it already. Erik has been abominably selfish. He had no right to burden Christine with his monstrous offspring."

" _Allah_ , here we go again," sighed the Persian. "Stop using the third person and speak like a rational adult – wait, I forgot whom I was talking to for a moment. Do I really need to point out to you that most women want children, need them, even, to be satisfied in life?"

"Not my child," said Erik stubbornly. "Christine will hate it."

"Why?"

"That should be obvious."

"Actually, it is, somewhat. As you are being as unforthcoming as usual, I suppose I must tell you what you feel, instead of the other way round." Mihr leaned back and began to tick items off on his fingers. "Firstly, you are almost certainly deathly afraid that the child will be deformed. I am no doctor, so do not ask me the likelihood of that. Go find a reputable physician, if such a thing can be found in this country, and ask him. Secondly, you are most likely concerned that it will cause great disruption in your life. Which it will, unless you hire a servant to look after it and spend only an hour or so a day with your child, as is the way of the wealthy. I am not sure such an arrangement would find favour with Madame Phantom."

Erik shot another glare at his old friend from over his teacup. Mihr took no notice, and went on.

"She seems rather the maternal sort to me, and may well prefer to tend her own children. She will have had a good deal of practice already, with you."

With slitted yellow eyes, the former Angel of Death measured the distance between himself and the Persian nuisance. Only a few feet; the lasso could easily travel that far. Just let that garrulous old fool make one more insult, and Erik would be rid of him forever.

"Thirdly, you are panicked that the child will take entirely too much after its father, causing Christine to resent or despise it and, by extension, you. Need I remind you that she surely does not feel either of those for you, else she would not have consented to become your wife? Fourthly, you are probably apprehensive for your wife's safety. No need; giving birth is what women were designed for and the vast majority of them come through their ordeal with no real trouble. Christine is young and healthy and there is no reason to suppose she would be different from the usual. Fifthly, knowing you, I suspect that you do not care to give up any of her time and attention to anyone, not even your own child; in which case you ought to have kept this a marriage in name only. What on earth did you think was going to happen?"

"I thought we had already established that I was not thinking at all."

"We had. I would have thought that you might have grown out of that particular fault, but it seems you have no more sense now than you did in your youth when you burned your bridges with the shah. And sixthly, I am sure that you are thinking that you have no idea how to be a father."

"And just how in hell would I?" hissed Erik. He had deliberately made his voice frightening, but to no avail. His tormentor's maddening calm did not waver.

"Well, neither does any other man, the first time a child of his appears on the scene. You wanted nothing more than to be a normal person, a few months ago; normal people sometimes have to do things they do not know how to do and have no experience in. They can not just master a technique on an instrument or memorize the vocabulary of a language – or bully people – and be able to do something brilliantly the first time they try. They must muddle through the thing instead. You wanted this; well, you have it. Have the courage of your convictions and try to do the best you can, like everyone else."

Erik sat scowling in his chair. "Well, thank you for that fine dissertation on my emotions," he sneered. "In future I shall simply ask you what they are about any given subject, and not bother taking the time to attempt to discern them myself."

"Do; it will take less time than me cajoling you and you refusing to answer, again and again," rejoined the Persian. "Perhaps I should consult with Madame Giry. No doubt she has a spare opinion or two regarding your conduct."

"More than one or two, I fear. She was here yesterday – no, wait, two days ago. I have partially lost track of what day it is."

"Really?" said the daroga, looking far too interested for Erik's comfort. "Why? I did not know she was in the habit of visiting you too."

Erik cursed inwardly. Why had he let that slip? He did not care to tell the daroga about the events of the last two days. The old busybody knew far too much already.

He was saved this time not by an alarm bell, but by the timely sound of the front door opening and the house's new chatelaine returning from her religious duties. Christine seemed pleased to see the Persian – well, she would be, thought Erik, someone else for her to complain to about him – and after the necessary round of greetings and further pouring of tea, she settled down in a chair too.

"I understand I am to offer you my congratulations, Madame," said the daroga courteously, in French now instead of his own language, in which he had been conversing with Erik.

"Oh, you told him!" exclaimed Christine to Erik, half embarrassed and half excited. Erik gulped tea, wishing it were brandy.

"As a matter of fact, he did not have to," Mihr explained smoothly. "You see, when I met up with him he was so obviously filled with joy that I knew that given your presence in his life now, it could only have one cause."

Erik forbore to expose the lie. If Christine allowed herself to be taken in by such obvious fabrication, that was her fault. He certainly wouldn't take steps to prevent it. And besides, should she actually believe a story like that, she might be further pleased with him. Perhaps he should begin seeking the daroga's aid when he was at outs with Christine?

"Really?" Christine turned her own eyes on her husband, initially happy but, as she examined what could be seen of his expression, increasingly doubtful.

"Do not worry about his current aspect, Madame," said the daroga soothingly. "We have been disagreeing about matters of philosophy, and you know how he hates to lose an argument."

"Oh, I do, I do," answered Christine, now regarding Erik with a fondness which he thought entirely misplaced. She wouldn't be looking at him that way after the first time she was ill in the mornings. He knew enough about childbearing to know that that was surely on the horizon. This line of thought caused him to wonder when exactly she had become pregnant. She'd mentioned something about a recent visit to a physician; she must be far enough along for the man to have known she was expecting. But... she'd had her courses a week after they'd married; it must not have been from those first few times; perhaps a month or so after the wedding night, then? That would make her... he calculated swiftly. Something like two months gone with child. So it would arrive approximately seven months from now.

Oh, God. Everything was happening far too fast. Events seemed to be swirling past him, too quick for him to grasp at them long enough to comprehend them. The disaster of the second kidnapping, her return, the wedding, their terrible misunderstanding on the wedding night, the reconciliation – upon second thoughts, perhaps it would have been better if they'd not reconciled and he'd kept his hands strictly to himself thereafter, to say nothing of other things. Gloomily he reflected upon the obscene irony of his having gotten a woman with child within mere weeks of even having the opportunity to risk such an occurrence in the first place, after half a lifetime of celibacy. Other couples sometimes went a year or more before the woman fell pregnant; why could Christine not have done so? The beautiful idyll of having only each other, his joy and fulfilment, was soon to come to an abrupt end, to be replaced by noise and mess and upheaval of the sort which he was sure he was too old for. Though it seemed he was not too old to have brought this state of affairs about. He had thought he might be, when he thought about it at all, which had evidently not been often enough. But no such luck for Erik, apparently.

"... going to have a new house. Isn't that right, Erik?"

He realised he was being spoken to, and made an effort at a proper response. "Yes, indeed. I did some preliminary sketches yesterday."

"It's going to be a wonderful house," Christine enthused to the daroga. "I'll be so thrilled to be living in one that he's designed! It will be so romantic."

The Persian nodded politely, but met Erik's eyes over his teacup, a sardonic look in his own jade green ones. Erik knew precisely what his old acquaintance was thinking; that the words "romantic" and "Erik" had never been known to be included in the same sentence before. Well, Christine had a rather unorthodox idea of what constituted "romantic," which had been all to the good for Erik more than once. He restrained himself from snapping 'Oh, so you've given up the idea of separate bedrooms now?' The daroga did not need to know about that either.

"Where will you be purchasing a lot? Near the Opera House, I suppose, so Christine can get to rehearsals and performances easily?"

"I do not care where it is so long as a skilled physician is nearby for Christine's sake – wait a moment." There was a complication which he had not thought of till just now. He turned to look at his wife. "Christine, we can not possibly have a house built before... ah, before the... baby comes." What had happened to his ability to speak intelligently? "And we must be out of here well before then. I will not take chances with your health just now."

"Rent a suitable house then," suggested the daroga. "Allow the building of the other one to take as long as it takes, and move into it when you both are ready."

"We could do that," said Erik thoughtfully. The clock chimed noon loudly, and Christine jumped.

"Oh, but I am forgetting my manners!" she cried. "Will you stay and take lunch with us, Monsieur de Mazanderan?"

She was still stumbling slightly over the Oriental pronunciation, and blushed. Erik had informed her that the Persian's last name was merely the name of the region where he came from, his people not using surnames. When he was being interviewed in the course of his formal request for political asylum in France, the clerk had asked his name, and Mihr had answered automatically, "Monsieur Mihr of Mazanderan." The clerk had written that down on the form, stumbling over the spelling. It had seemed as good a surname as any other, in a country where he needed one. And when he took employment in the bureaucracy-bound French police force, a legal surname had certainly been needed. It still came naturally to him, however, to use simply his first name.

But Christine did not yet feel at all comfortable addressing him as such, though he had assured her she could. Erik intervened, to save her awkwardness and himself annoyance.

"No, my dear, he was just leaving."

"Lunch sounds lovely, thank you," said Mihr, at the same time that Erik spoke. They stood glaring at each other for a few seconds, while Christine looked discomfited, until Erik made a sharp gesture of assent. Accordingly, they all sat down to a cold luncheon together in the dining room. Watching Christine jump up and down every time they needed something that was in the kitchen, while not allowing him to fetch it, he decided that they must hire some staff once they were situated in the rented house. Doing without them had been all very well down here, but in a larger house, and in her condition, Christine could not under any circumstances be allowed to shoulder all the housework. He had had servants before, in the Orient; it had been some time, and he had learned to prefer his privacy, but he would have to manage for her sake.

"Christine, we must hire some staff," he announced. "We shall be living in a bigger house than this, and it will be too much work for you. I do not want you to exhaust yourself like this."

"But I'm not – servants? Us?" She was obviously confused, but unwilling to question him in front of the Persian.

"Not to worry," put in the daroga. "I realise, Madame, that you know Erik as the greatest of recluses, but when he lived in Persia he had servants, and many of them. He can do so again, even if it has been a few years."

"More than a few," said Erik darkly. "And I had servants during my time in several other countries, as well."

"Oh, you've travelled so much," said Christine with a sigh. She turned to the Persian, and continued, "Will you tell me more about your country? It's so fascinating."

"Of course, Madame. Has Erik ever told you of the tale of the hero Ya'Qub-I Laith Saffari?"

"No."

"Ah. Well, he was a famous warrior in the ninth century who conquered large territories, and founded the Saffarid dynasty in Sistan – a city in what is now Afghanistan, Madame. It was at his court that the Persian language was brought back, after centuries of being ignored in favour of Arabic. Ya' Qub is rather like the Europeans' Robin Hood, as legend has it that he stole from the rich and gave to the poor…"

Christine was greatly interested by the story, and asked many questions as they finished their lunch. Erik, who was thoroughly familiar with all this, quickly stopped listening, in favour of sitting in sullen silence over his pâté and dwelling petulantly upon the upcoming changes which were going to be forced upon him. When the Persian had departed, the book of maps under his arm, and Erik's house was his own again, he came back into the parlour and found his wife seated in a chair. He took off his mask, sighed wearily, and then sat on the floor before her, burying his face in her skirts as he clutched handfuls of silk in his fingers.

"Oh, poor Erik," she murmured, laying her hands on his head. "It's been a tiring couple of days for you, hasn't it? Are you worried about the baby?"

He was too tired and too upset just now to try to ponder what the required response might be. "Christine, I have no idea what answer you want me to make. Tell me, and I'll say it. But I do not want you to be angry with me again."

"I'm not angry. Why would I be?"

"You almost decided to leave me yesterday."

"I did not. Please don't say things like that. We're married; I never meant to leave you."

"But you wanted to."

"No, Erik, no. You're the father – " He groaned loudly, and she went steadfastly on, " – the father of our child. It's a link between us that can't ever be broken now. Don't you see that? I was never going to leave you anyway, and I'm even less likely to now."

He had not thought of it in quite that way. If it were true that a baby would cement their marriage for all time, perhaps it was not such a bad idea after all... ?

The clock chimed, and when Erik glanced reflexively at it, he saw that it was time for Christine's music lesson. He must not neglect that. She would still take her place amongst the great singers of the world; he would see to it. His plans for her would just… have to wait for a bit. But he would not let her voice suffer.

Over dinner that evening, Christine asked, "What is your new opera about?"

"Oh – " Erik had been thinking about the child, and it took him a moment to refocus his mind. "It is, or rather, will be, a four-opera cycle on the subject of the _Divine Comedy_. One opera each for _Inferno_ , _Purgatorio_ , and _Paradiso_ , with a shorter work to serve as a prologue of sorts, for explanatory purposes, based on _Vita Nuova_."

"You mean, like the _Ring_ cycle?"

"Yes. I thought of it years ago, but a work that long and complicated seemed absurd. Monsieur Wagner demonstrated that it was not. I travelled to Germany in 1876, you know, to the festival at Bayreuth when the full cycle was finally performed as one."

"You did?"

"Yes. Oh, I see what you are thinking; yes, I braved the crowds because it was worth it to be able to listen to that music. I'd seen his _Tristan und Isolde_ in Munich in '65, when I was making my way back to France after I decided to leave the Orient, and it was an unbelievable experience. So I was intent on hearing this new work from him. I went back to my rented room full of inspiration, and stayed up all night scribbling down an outline for Dante, but then when I got back to Paris other things intervened and I never got much farther than that until now."

They had largely finished eating. Erik got up and fetched the draft of his new work. "I do not intend to copy what another man did, of course; that is for the mediocre artist. Look, here is what I have done with the journey down to Hell, in contrast to Wagner's descent into his underworld of Nibelheim…"

He showed her the melodies he had already written, and the plans for other parts of the score that he had sketched out but not actually worked on yet. Christine was flatteringly delighted with them, and he was pleased with himself at being able to make her eyes widen with amazement.

"Oh, it sounds wonderful," she finally sighed, running her hand over the messily scrawled notes in red ink. "Play a bit for me?" After clearing the dishes, they went into the parlour and Erik sat down at the piano. Improvising some lyrics of a love-song from Dante to Beatrice as he went, he sang for her with a rising passion, his voice gaining power effortlessly and swelling with the emotion that was never very far away when he thought of Christine. When he finished, he turned to face her, and saw the languid pose of her body and the sensual expression on her face, her beautiful eyes half-lidded. He knew what these meant now; she wanted him again. His own body stirred forcefully in response, but he controlled it, for he did not know whether it was safe, with Christine's condition, in fact he honestly had no idea. It was not, after all, as though he had ever needed to make use of such information before. And he very much hoped that last night's goings-on had not hurt her in any way. She certainly hadn't acted as though it did…rather, he had had the distinct impression that his life would have been in danger had he not satisfied her.

And he could be satisfying her again right now, but this damned inconvenient pregnancy was preventing it. Barely three months of finally having a husband's rights, and now he had to give them up, at least till he could consult with a medical professional. Maybe even until the child came? No joys of the marriage bed for Erik for months and months? He felt a strong surge of irritation, and barely restrained himself from making a cutting remark. Balling his hand into a fist instead, he looked away from Christine. But then he sensed a change in the atmosphere, glanced back at her, and saw that she was now looking concerned. Another moment, and she would be asking to know why his mood had suddenly changed, and he did not want to answer that question at all. She was so happy about this baby; it would make her angry with him if she knew how he felt about it.

In self-defence he took up his harp, and began singing again, softly this time but with deliberate charm, and plucking the strings in a peaceful, soothing song. Mesmerism had long since ceased to be something which required his full attention, and his hands and vocal cords performed their task automatically as he watched his wife out of the corner of his eye. Her eyelids were drooping farther and farther, as he had known they would, and after a few minutes she curled up on the couch and closed them. When he had finished his song, he lifted her into his arms and carried her into the Louis Philippe room as she mumbled incoherently, helped her out of her dress and into a nightgown, and then perched on the bed and sang to her again until she was fully asleep. This was best, he thought as he ran his fingers through her hair and stood up. He did not want either to risk harming her nor to upset her by refusing her advances.

He returned to the parlour and stretched out on the couch. He would have so liked to have stayed in the bedroom…but he could not risk intimacy with her until he had determined whether such indulgence was safe during pregnancy. Also, he was tired. It had been a stressful day, and he had not slept enough the night before to make up for not sleeping at all the previous two nights. Vexing that the daroga had shown up; Erik could have used some peace and quiet, without that meddler intruding. The Persian had been a fairly regular visitor ever since being given the announcement of Erik and Christine's marriage – or at least, ever since he had forgiven Erik for the entire debacle surrounding it. Erik smirked as he recalled the shock on his old acquaintance's face.

O-O-O O-O-O


	24. Chapter 24

Hello, all, and thank you so much for continuing to stick with this story. My apologies for such a huge wait in between chapters. As a peace offering, today I'll give you two new chapters instead of just one. And I expect to be able to get back to posting regularly now.

A quick author's note, which I should have put in with the last chapter: my version of the Persian is not only the former chief of the government police in Persia, he's actually employed with the French police force. Though in France he's now just a regular police officer, I thought he needed something to do with himself besides hanging around the Opera and bothering Erik.

Onward, then: In which the daroga takes Erik to task, and poor old Leroux gets turned on his head. I do hope he doesn't mind what I've done with his text.

 _Chapter 24. April 1887. Second week after the wedding._

Some days after their wedding, Erik had finally extracted himself from the marriage bed long enough to pay a call to the Persian.

"You _must_ go to see him, Erik. He has no idea whether any of us are alive or dead; why, the poor man must be frantic!"

"He knows we are both well. I sent him that letter, as you requested. He is fine." Erik was far more interested in the way that Christine's golden tresses were falling over her bare breasts, and the absolute necessity of demonstrating his appreciation of the effect, than with the daroga's peace of mind.

"If he is really your oldest friend as you told me, you owe him a visit to announce your marriage anyway. It would be terribly rude, otherwise." She neatly evaded his grasp and clutched the sheet to her beautiful bosom. This had the combined result of removing enough of the current visual distraction for him to be able to make a response, and disappointing him that said distraction was now mostly hidden from his adoring eyes. He threw himself crossly back onto the pillows.

"That accursed Persian already was terribly rude himself, breaking into Erik's house and causing all manner of trouble."

"That was your own fault and you know it." Her eyes looked distinctly annoyed, not at all the glaze of desire which he had swiftly learned to love seeing. "And I _saw_ that letter you wrote him. He's probably more worried now than he was before. You could not have been more cryptic if you tried."

"Erik _was_ trying. He knew it would wind up that old fool like a piece of Erik's clockworks." If he could not have his newfound marital rights, he would at least take refuge in sarcasm. A pitiful bargain indeed.

" _Erik_!"

"Do not scowl at Erik like that, Christine…oh, all right! I will go!"

"When?"

"…later."

But he had only a few moments of bliss, before Christine suddenly murmured, "Oh, _no_ ," leapt out of bed and snatched up her robe, and dashed for the bathroom. When she came back, she would not meet his eyes.

"Erik…"

Much to the amorous husband's chagrin, his bride had informed him, with great mortification, that so far as marital relations went he was out of luck for several days, possibly a week. It was this revelation that had resulted in his making good that day on his promise to visit the daroga; there was now no reason to stay in bed late. Accordingly, Erik had presented himself later that morning at the Persian's door, and informed a mulish Darius that he would not depart until he had seen the daroga. He might not have been quite so forceful about it, however, had he known of the accusation which would be thrown at him the minute he entered his friend's presence.

"Murderer! You've killed Comte Philippe. What have you done with his brother and Christine Daae?"

" _What_?" said Erik blankly, momentarily forgetting about the purpose of his visit.

"You heard me!"

"Daroga, what on earth are you on about? Killed the Comte? Not at all. What makes you think that I did?"

"Because the newspapers are saying that you did!"

"They are?"

"Yes!"

"I have no idea why that should be. And since when do you believe everything you read in the papers? I suppose next you'll be telling me you've taken up serialized novels."

"Are you telling _me_ you have not seen a newspaper in the last few days? All they are printing is speculation over what happened at the Opera. I would think you would have been interested to know what is being said. As soon as I was well enough to rise from my bed, I sent a letter to the de Chagnys to find out if the Comte was really dead, and I received no answer. What was I to think, Erik?"

Erik recalled now what he had been going to announce to the Persian.

"No, in fact, I have not seen a paper at all. Erik had far more important things to think about."

"I do not doubt it! Things like whatever dreadful act you have committed against Raoul de Chagny and Christine Daae! No one has seen either of them since that night you abducted her off the stage!"

"Don't speak to me of that idiot boy!" Erik snapped. "I don't want to hear about him! I came here for a reason, and it wasn't to be accused of – "

 _"Raoul de Chagny and Christine Daae, Erik?"_

"Damn it!" bellowed Erik, making the windows rattle in their frames. Darius came rushing to the door and peered in apprehensively. "I haven't killed anybody! And I have no intention of doing so ever again, but if you keep on like this, I might change my mind!"

"Then tell me, for the love of heaven, what _happened_!"

"I did tell you. I sent you a letter three days ago."

"Oh, yes, that letter which explained nothing, and confused everything! You did a splendid job of seeing to it that my mind was left in worse state after reading it than before." The daroga waved a hand irritably at his manservant, who withdrew with an injured look.

Erik could not help smirking. "Yes, I must admit, that letter was a masterpiece."

" 'A masterpiece,' " scoffed Mihr scathingly. "Oh, don't stand there and preen yourself on your cleverness, you unbelievable imbecile. Do you know that letter caused me to rush to headquarters to make a report, because I thought you'd – "

"You did what, daroga?" Erik's voice was suddenly low and dangerous, and the Persian stepped hastily backward, putting a chair between himself and the man who had once been the most feared assassin in the Orient.

"I told my colleagues what I knew, Erik, and it was your own fault that I did so! You sent me that cryptic letter intending for it to distress me. Well, you succeeded – " Mihr broke off abruptly, as Erik took a threatening step forward. But then he stopped short.

Christine would not want him to harm the Persian, traitor though he had become. Christine did not want him to harm _anyone_. He had promised her that if she married him, he would give up his wickedness and be as gentle as a lamb; well, she had fulfilled her side of the bargain. He must do the same to his. He dropped the hands he had raised.

"Your double-crossing neck is safe, daroga," he snarled. "I have become the most virtuous of men now, remember? You needn't look so terrified – though I must say it is rather gratifying that you are."

"Nothing has come of it, I promise you," Mihr insisted, speaking very fast. "They did not believe me. They thought I was off my head, said I'd been working too hard; and they refused to look into my claims. You are in no danger of arrest, Erik."

"Good," said Erik curtly. "That would be the supreme irony, if Erik had to flee yet another country now, after all that has happened."

"I'm not sure I'm sorry you aren't," said the Persian, beginning to be angry again. "Your conduct was inexcusable."

"So was yours, daroga. A man of the law, breaking into his old friend's house with pistols in hand?"

"You deserved having your house broken into and worse," snapped Mihr. "How was I to know that Mademoiselle Daae's life was not in danger? You were quite beyond all reason by that point and I knew it. I was trying to prevent a great tragedy from occurring, and I would have done anything to stop it."

"Well, you failed." Erik's voice was contemptuous. "The old policeman is finally losing his touch."

"I know I failed, Erik! So what did happen? Who is dead? Are you going to tell me now, or am I going to summon some of my comrades and prove to them that I was telling the truth?"

"As if you could hope to hold me captive here until they arrived. A false threat, daroga. But as it happens, I did come here to clear everything up for you – though if I did not have something worth boasting about to you I would not tell you a thing, and just let you remain in torment. However."

Erik folded his arms and announced, with great self-satisfaction, "Not a hair on the heads of either of the Chagny brothers or the former Mademoiselle Daae has been harmed by me. You need not worry about anyone's fate – except, perhaps, for mine! Daroga, I am a married man."

He had been expecting the Persian to be gratifyingly shocked at this, but instead, all he got was further vitriol.

"Oh, so you forced her to the Madeleine after all, did you? I suppose you saw to it that she was fully entranced when she said her vows, then?"

"Not in the slightest!" exclaimed Erik, offended. "Daroga, you insult me."

Mihr stood still for a moment, breathing hard and glaring. Then he snapped, " _I_ insult _you_? Allah! You can say that after everything that transpired below ground? Yes, yes, of course you can. You always were utterly shameless."

"If you will keep quiet for two minutes together I will tell you everything. No, I didn't entrance Christine, she married me of her own free will, astonishing though that is. She is a marvellous creature, daroga! I did not kill the Comte de Chagny, and I did not do anything to his irritating little hothead of a brother – save drugging him and locking him up in an old Communard's dungeon for a while. But I soon set him free, and he suffered no permanent harm. Sit down and ring your servant's bell and have Darius bring us both brandy. You'll need it. What a good thing you've never abided by the Mohammedans' asinine strictures against alcohol."

"You'll have to spin quite a tale to get me to believe this," the Persian threatened.

"Well and good, then. I always was good at story-telling. Sit down and ring that bell, I tell you."

As the Persian clutched his brandy glass as though it were a life-line, Erik told him of what had transpired in the depths of the Opera House, after he had taken Mihr back to his flat. He did not, however, make a good job of it initially, and managed only to confuse the other man for a time. No sooner did Erik begin to tell the story when he was overcome at the memory of Christine's first embrace, and the coherence of his tale disintegrated abruptly.

"Daroga, it was all because – well, because Christine – oh, she is the most wonderful woman in the world – I still can not believe it when I think of it. My God, I feel as if I were going to die of love sometimes – my heart may burst any time now, daroga – "

Thoroughly agitated, Erik gasped for breath, pressing one hand to his chest. Then he jumped to his feet and began pacing, brandy glass in hand. The Persian looked on in consternation.

"Daroga, if you knew how beautiful she was when she – oh, God – oh, she did it willingly, daroga, and she has done everything else willingly too, and I never, never thought she would!"

"What has she done?"

"She has saved me, saved Erik you see, and it was the first time I ever – not even my mother – she was alive, Christine was alive I mean, not Erik's poor miserable mother, she is long since dead, but Christine – she was alive, so alive when it happened daroga, and she was so much more beautiful than I ever thought she'd be dead. There was no comparison." He was vacillating in and out of French and Persian.

Mihr stood up as well, thoroughly alarmed. "What do you mean, Erik? Tell me now! What have you done?"

"I haven't done anything, daroga, I told you it was all Christine. It was not Erik's fault."

"Have you killed her after all, Erik? _Have you_? Is that what all this raving is about?"

"No!" cried Erik, balling his hand into a fist. "Murder my Christine? Never! How can you speak such sacrilege, daroga? I would kill myself first."

"I may beat you to it. Explain yourself, Erik!"

"I am!" Erik snarled. "You keep interrupting me, daroga. I am trying to tell you about Christine – how she – she – " He held the back of his hand to his lips, fingers flexing like a spider's legs and his golden eyes closing tightly, and could not go on.

Tried beyond bearing, Mihr set down his glass with a thud. Then he took two long strides across the room and seized Erik by the arm.

"Are you going to tell me if she's alive or dead?"

"Why are you shaking me like that?" Erik asked, his voice thick with sentiment as he dragged his eyes open again. "Look, you've spilled the brandy. I told you; if anyone dies it will be me, of love. Let go, daroga." He wrenched away and stepped back to lean weakly against the wall.

"Sit down in that chair," commanded the Persian with a thunderous expression, pointing sternly at the armchair Erik had vacated, "And tell me what happened, in a sensible fashion and with coherent language. Or I shall have you arrested."

"But, daroga, I am too undone just at present – look, I'm shaking – "

 _"Now!"_

There was no other man in the world who could have talked to Erik like that and lived to tell the tale – or whom Erik would have obeyed. But the former Angel of Death sat meekly down as he had been told, and his host replaced the spilled brandy. After a good bit of it had disappeared, Mihr, by dint of ruthless prodding, finally succeeded in extracting the story. It had been a long time since he had been the chief of the Persian police, but he had not lost the abilities that had got him to that exalted position and allowed him to make a career on two different continents of upholding the law. If Erik was not the most difficult subject Mihr had ever had to interrogate, he was certainly high on the list, but he was also quite overwhelmed with emotion and in short order he was the worse for drink as well. And his old friend had known him for a very long time. It was, ultimately, an unequal fight.

"She kissed me, daroga." Erik was slumped wearily in his chair.

"She _what_?"

"Yes, of course you are shocked. You know what I look like. Oh…oh, it's so _good_ to kiss someone, daroga! You can't imagine how it was, for me. And then – and then it happened a second time! Oh, if you knew how beautiful she was when she let me kiss her, alive – as she had sworn on her eternal soul. It was the first – " This was an embarrassing admission, and Erik took another deep swallow of brandy for fortification. "The first time that I ever kissed a woman. What woman would have ever let me do such a thing, looking as I do? But I kissed her, alive, when I'd only ever thought I would be able to if she were dead."

"And she is not dead, now?" the Persian asked sharply.

"No, no, she's not dead!" cried Erik. "She is my wife, my living wife! And if anyone touches a hair of the beautiful head of _my wife_ , they'll pay! She's a brave and honourable woman who, on top of everything else, on top of marrying me of all people, saved your life, daroga, at a moment when I wouldn't have given two sous for your Persian hide. Why the devil did you come down there with that little idiot? You, who knows better than anyone about Erik's tricks! I'd told you to stay away, why didn't you listen? You never listen."

Erik raised a trembling hand to his mouth again, lowered it, and said, "Oh, if you knew how beautiful she was when she let me kiss her, alive – "

"What do you mean?" demanded Mihr brusquely.

"Yes, I see a comment like that upsets you, daroga, when it issues from me. I can not blame you, you who knows what I am. More brandy, please."

Erik held out his glass. He ought not to drink so much, especially when he still had to get home, but talking about this was extraordinarily difficult. When the glass was refilled, he gulped another burning swallow for further courage, and continued, "I always believed that a woman would die if I did anything of the sort. I bring only death to people. You know that, daroga."

"I thought you were not going to commit any further atrocities after I helped you escape the shah," said the Persian, glowering. "That is why I did it, Erik! So that your gifts and your brilliance might benefit humanity, not so you could 'bring death' to any more people!"

Erik, head spinning from brandy and passion, waved a dismissive hand. "Do not be such an old woman, daroga. Yes, I tried to keep that promise. But I journeyed to more dangerous countries than yours, you know, and sometimes Erik had to…Erik _had to_ , you see. I went to Constantinople after leaving Persia, and there – and there – "

" _Erik_. Get hold of yourself or I shall shake you again."

"Don't flatter yourself, daroga, you wouldn't dare. I did what I had to do when I had to do it, that is all, and then I decided to come back to France. And then I went to live underground, which was a stupid thing for Erik to do. His mind could not handle the isolation, even though it was what I thought I wanted. My madness came back, daroga, that madness that you saw yourself, and then Erik fell in love and everything went to the devil. More brandy."

"You've had more than enough already. No more. Continue, please, and try to make a little more sense or we will be here all day."

"You are cruel, daroga, and most inhospitable. Very well, then. Yes, Erik did horrible deeds while in the grip of madness over Christine, but that is all right now, daroga, because she has redeemed me! Yes! She has! She has redeemed Erik, of all people! By God, I don't know why she did it, because he certainly didn't deserve it, but I am so very happy she did. Yes, I am happy, daroga! Have you ever seen me so before?"

"Not about anything good," said the Persian dryly. "But I must say I've never seen you in quite such a quivering mess before. I should have known better than to give you so much brandy while you were in this condition."

"I needed it, daroga, I needed it. It is a good thing we shall be here for some time, you know, as it would not be safe for Erik to go through the streets to get home while in this condition. He must have his wits about him when he is out in public, as he never knows when he will be set upon."

" _I_ never know when your paranoia will get completely out of hand. Paris is a civilized city and I strongly doubt you have much to worry about in this neighbourhood. If anyone is in danger I ought to be, as an obvious foreigner, but I've never been bothered in the least. Continue, I said."

Erik tried to do so, but soon his fragile composure disintegrated again. He continued talking, but in gasping, broken sentences, till he fell silent altogether and could not go on. With a sigh, the Persian rose, excused himself, and went out to the other room to tell Darius to make some strong coffee and bring it in. Returning to his parlour, he saw that Erik had finally calmed, and was sitting motionless in his chair.

"Have you recovered yourself now?" Mihr asked. When Erik, his eyes red-rimmed behind the mask, nodded silently, the daroga seated himself again and remarked, rather sarcastically, "It was lucky for your purposes that you are not usually given to falling apart like this, else you would not been able to carry out your…assigned duties in my country."

"I prefer to forget the Rosy Hours of Mazanderan," muttered Erik, as he had before, and they were silent then until the coffee arrived. Erik sipped at it feebly, and tried again to finish his story. But he continued to speak in fits and starts, so that the Persian had to wait some time to have all the pieces of the story together. When Erik had finally finished, Mihr commented, "Well, I must say, Erik, that is an incredible turnabout."

"Yes," said Erik. "Like something one might see in a melodrama."

"Melodrama is a good deal more pleasant when acted out on a stage, and not actually happening to one in real life," said the daroga darkly. He lit a cigarette, and then leaned back in his chair and inquired, "Do you honestly expect me to believe all this?"

Erik's yellow eyes flew wide open, and he snapped, "Yes, I do! It is all true."

"Erik, the last I heard, that girl was weeping with horror at the idea of being forced into matrimony with you, and she was considering letting a quarter of Paris die along with her so she wouldn't have to, and – "

"She was not!" retorted Erik, glaring at Mihr. "She would never have made that choice. She is too good."

The Persian dismissed his protest with an annoyed wave of the hand, making a thin smoke trail through the air, and persisted, "And yet after you compelled her to make just such a choice; after you kidnapped her and raved at her for hours; drove her to attempt suicide and then tied her to a chair when she finally did; after you taunted her with what was going to happen to me and her fiancé in your abominable chamber; after you endangered her life right along with everyone else's, while claiming all along that you were doing so out of _love_ for her – after all that, you expect me to believe that she suddenly recognized a heretofore undiscovered attachment to you, and married you of her own volition?"

"Well…yes," said Erik weakly, suddenly realising how absurd this all sounded when discussed bluntly in the cold light of day. But it was true! He did have Christine's love now! Erik did not understand it any better than the daroga did, but somehow it had happened, and his heart swelled with pride.

Mihr shifted forward and tapped ash into the tray on the table between them, and then sat back again, took a long drag on his cigarette, fixed Erik with a gimlet stare, and said evenly, "Rubbish."

"Daroga!"

"You are merely spinning me this fabrication to placate me and get me off your trail. Do you think I don't know your tricks? I am well aware of your love of convincing someone of a truly fantastic tale and then laughing at them after. No doubt you were expecting to go home and congratulate yourself on your cleverness as usual. Well, it won't work."

"But it is all true!" repeated Erik, leaping to his feet and scowling down at Mihr, who remained unmoved and merely continued smoking and staring up at him calmly. This annoyed Erik still further. "I swear to you that it is!"

"You have told me many times that you only swear when you want to fool stupid people. You ought not to have done so if you wanted to retain the ability to include me in that category. Really, Erik, a skilful gambler never shows his hand." The daroga's tone was ironic, even mocking, and it flicked on the raw. How dare this double-crossing old busybody lecture _him_ on how to play the game properly?

"Then, come back with me to my house and I'll show you!" cried Erik recklessly, making a sweeping gesture toward the door. "I shall show you that Erik has a wife now, and that he's loved for himself after all, and you'll have to eat your words! I'll have you speak to her yourself, and then you'll be sorry you insulted Erik like this, daroga, you'll be sorry."

The Persian gazed at him a few moments longer, letting Erik stand there and pant with wrath, till he finally heaved himself out of his chair, stubbed out his cigarette, and said, "As you wish, then. This I have to see. Let me have Darius fetch our hats and my cane."

O-O-O O-O-O


	25. Chapter 25

_Chapter 25. April 1887. Second week after the wedding (continued)._

Soon after, the two men entered the hallway of the underground house, once Erik had unlocked his front door. "I must say this is a far better welcome than I received the last time I visited you," said the Persian sourly.

"Well, daroga, if you will go about breaking into people's houses in the dead of night, then you deserve what you get," answered Erik, having calmed down during the trip across the lake, and now making a great show of sounding excessively virtuous. Then he turned sardonic. "Do you know I could have killed you for it and been immune to prosecution? French law allows someone to do away with an intruder who breaks into his house after dark. It is assumed automatically to be self-defence in that case."

The Persian rejoined, "Somehow I strongly doubt that you bear legal title to this place, Erik – " He indicated the house with a sweeping gesture. "And therefore that law would have been inapplicable, as you could not have been proven to be the owner of the property which was being broken into."

"Enough of this nonsense," snapped Erik. "Let us move on to what we came here for, and then you can go away and leave me in peace."

They went into the parlour, only to find no sign of the house's new mistress.

"Hmmm. Perhaps she has gone out, and your vulgar curiosity will have to go unsatisfied, daroga? No – I saw her keys on the hall tree. Why, daroga, you should have seen how quickly she learned how to work Erik's lock, after he showed it to her! She is such a clever girl!"

"And you, my friend, are besotted," said Mihr dryly. "I never would have believed it of you. How the mighty have fallen; you are revealed as human after all."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, daroga. Leave that to those who are experts in it – " There was a crash from the bedroom, and Erik turned instinctively in that direction. "Ah, I believe I know where she is. I wonder if she was trying to get something down from a high shelf, and dropped it? If so, she should have waited until her husband was at home. I can at least be of use to her in that way. Wait here and I will fetch her."

He went into the Louis-Philippe room, only to find his wife half in and half out of her gown. Her dressing table's chair lay on its side, explaining the crash.

"Christine, what are you doing? Why are you changing in the middle of the day?"

Her head popped out of her skirt as she yanked it over her head, and she glared as she tossed the garment aside. "Because I was tidying the parlour in a grubby old house dress! I didn't expect you to bring anyone home! You never do!" She snatched up a silk skirt that was laid across the bed.

"My apologies," said Erik, abashed. Showing off his new wife had begun to seem like an attractive idea on the way back, but it hadn't occurred to him that Christine had had no warning of a visitor. Contritely he said, "There is no need to rush so. That old busybody can loiter in my parlour a while longer. He's the one who tricked Erik into bringing him here, to prove to him that you were happy being Erik's wife, and did it of your own accord. It is his own fault if he is kept waiting. "

" _He_ tricked _you_?" said Christine, eyebrows raised as she shoved her arms into a new bodice.

"Ah – " Erik realised suddenly how embarrassing that was. "Certainly not," he answered, affecting a haughty air. "I knew what he was about the whole time."

"Then why did you go along with it? I would think you would have just told him you weren't fooled, then? I thought you didn't want him to come to the house." Righting the chair, she dropped into it and began neatening her hair, which had seized the opportunity to begin escaping from its pins.

"It is impolite to leave a guest waiting too long," said Erik hastily. "I will go out and talk to him."

Once back in the parlour, Erik saw the Persian's raised eyebrow and explained smoothly, "She is dressing."

"Oh?"

"Yes. She wishes to greet you in a manner befitting a wife." He had never felt as smug, or as thrilled. Erik had a wife, and one who wanted to be a credit to him! So full of rapturous pride that he felt as though he were floating, he went and poured a glass of wine for his guest, handed it to him, and then got himself a glass of water instead. No more spirits for Erik. He must keep a reasonably clear head about him, as the daroga would be alert for any indication that all was not as it seemed.

At length Christine appeared, a vision in satin and lace with a cameo pinned at her throat and colour in her cheeks. There was a round of stiff bowing and introductions, and tea was prepared. Conversation was stilted at first, but Christine was skilled at social niceties and it showed. Erik felt prouder of her yet.

While the tea was brewing in its silver pot, the daroga announced, "I am sorry not to have been at your wedding," in what was so patently a leading question that Erik felt himself justified in levelling a ferocious glare at the man. The Persian, unperturbed, merely flicked a calculating glance in Erik's direction, the purpose of which the newly minted husband understood implicitly; Mihr was keeping watch on him to see if any slip-up of expression or gesture would give the game away.

Christine ignored the by-play, and said calmly, "It is no matter. We had only a very small ceremony. There was not time to plan a large one and neither of us have friends or relations enough to need such anyway. But you must be our guest for dinner sometime soon, instead."

"I should be delighted to accept such an invitation, Madame."

"Christine, my dear, I am sure he would be far too busy to come to dinner with us," said Erik, as rudely as possible – which was quite rude indeed.

"Not at all," said Mihr. "I should be remiss in my manners indeed if I were too busy to come to dinner with an old friend to celebrate his marriage."

Christine, her cheeks pinker than ever, shot a surreptitious glance at the clock and began pouring the tea. She served their guest first, according to the dictates of courtesy, and then picked up a second cup, neatly dropped two spoonfuls of sugar into it, and handed it to her husband.

Erik despised any additions to his tea, which his wife knew very well. He took up the small silver spoon she had put on the saucer and stirred the tea with more vigour than strictly necessary, deciding to refrain from any further untoward remarks. He was clearly going to have to curb his tongue for the time being or he would earn himself Christine's displeasure.

Mihr took a sip of his own tea and asked, "You made the decision to marry swiftly, then?"

Erik was well aware of what that meant, as well. Did Christine have to have made that remark about not having enough time? She was obviously trying, but she did not know the daroga or how quickly he could pounce upon a careless remark. And the hidebound old prigwas looking for reasons to disbelieve Erik's assertion that Christine had chosen this marriage.

"There was no reason to wait," Christine answered. "We had known each other for some months by then. He was my voice teacher; did you know that, Monsieur de Mazanderan?"

"I did," responded Mihr blandly. "Erik and I keep up on each other's doings, don't we, Erik?"

"Quite," said Erik dryly. "I can always count on him to be there."

"I do enjoy a good visit with you, Erik. Perhaps now you will keep more regular hours at home, with a wife to attend to."

Unable to resist the temptation, Erik answered, "I do not care for the silly custom of advertising that one is 'at home to friends' at predictable hours, daroga. It allows people to simply _drop in on you_ without warning."

"My husband tells me you have been friends for quite a long time?" Christine interjected hastily.

"Oh yes. I met him in my country back in…1862, I think it must be."

"Why, that is twenty-five years ago!" Christine marvelled.

"I suppose it is, isn't it, old friend?" Mihr said to Erik, who refused to answer, took a reflexive sip of his tea instead, and choked, spilling what remained in the cup. A brief fuss ensued, with Christine thrusting a napkin at him and rescuing the tea cup, curt apologies from Erik as he mopped up, and reassurances from Mihr that these things happened.

Fresh tea poured for Erik – free of sugar this time – the conversation resumed, this time turning to topics of travel, one of the few permissible subjects for polite conversation. Or rather, it would have been, had it been anyone other than Erik's travels that Christine chose to discuss.

"Erik has not told me much about his time in your country. Can you enlighten me, Monsieur? I should so much like to hear his history from the perspective of someone who knows him as well as you do."

" _Daroga_ ," said Erik threateningly, and added, in Persian, "I do not wish my wife to know of the horrors of those _rosy hours_."

Christine looked questioningly from one man to the other, obviously hurt that Erik had deliberately excluded her from his comment. Erik sat on the edge of his chair, more than willing to upset her slightly, or to expel the Persian from the house entirely, should there be any chance whatever of Christine hearing of his activities in the daroga's homeland. Mihr could be entirely too forthcoming at times. Erik and his old friend were going to have to have a discussion sometime soon about what was and was not appropriate for the ears of a lady. Fortunately, however, the man was also no fool, and clearly saw the wisdom of acceding to Erik's demand for circumspection. Instead of saying things which would have been dangerous to his health, he instead explained that Erik had fulfilled many roles in Persia, from court magician and composer to master architect. Leaving out the…other…responsibilities that Erik had had, Mihr said only that he had always been very busy, which was true, and that he had occasionally escaped to stay at Mihr's family estates in Mazanderan for short periods of time. From there the daroga launched into descriptions of the beauty of his home province's countryside. Christine was enchanted, as he had intended her to be, and her husband relaxed slightly, the crisis seemingly past.

But the daroga, a policeman for decades, would not be put off forever. With cordial relations now established, he eventually set his tea cup down and began the conversation that he was really there for.

"Mademoiselle – "

Erik gave a low growl.

"Excuse me, _Madame_ …" Mihr corrected himself.

"Yes?" responded Christine.

"You understand that I am an officer of the law, and have been all my life? Erik has told you this?"

"Yes."

"I am, therefore, honour-bound to uphold justice whenever possible. I pray you will forgive me for my impertinence, Madame, but I must know if you are happy here with Erik as your husband. I could not rest otherwise, and previous circumstances lead me to…doubt."

Christine looked extremely embarrassed, and Erik wished he had not allowed the Persian to dupe him into allowing the man to come here and upset Erik's wife. If Mihr went too far, Erik would certainly stop him. It was his clear duty as a husband.

But Christine held her head high, and her voice was steady when she answered, "Yes. I am happy."

"And you chose to marry him out of that same free will?"

"Yes."

"I am truly sorry to discompose you, Madame, but the last time I spoke with you, you were, well, quite adamant that you did not wish to do anything of the kind."

Christine's lower lip trembled, very slightly. Erik was about to chastise the Persian for such a brazen remark, but before he could his wife answered, "Feelings can change."

"Indeed they can, Madame. I understand that Erik's changed rather…dramatically, and that he freed you and the Vicomte from here."

"Daroga, I already told you that – "

"And furthermore, that you then realised affections for Erik which caused you to decide to accept his earlier proposal of marriage."

"Daroga, you are too – "

"And that you subsequently married him both legally and under God, and that you are happy having done so."

" _Daroga_ – "

"Silence," said the Persian, glaring at Erik. "I am speaking to Madame. Erik, you know what I am. I must know whether she is a prisoner here, a possibility which you yourself are responsible for having put into my head. Kindly keep quiet and allow me to determine whether I need to see to it that an evil situation is brought to an end, or whether I need to merely keep my nose out of a happily married couple's business."

He turned back to Christine. "And now, Mademoi – pardon me, Madame – I think we must go somewhere we can not be – " and here he shot a stare at Erik, " – _overheard_. You must feel comfortable speaking freely, and I am sure you can not with Erik in the same room. Will you perhaps consent to going out to a café with me?"

Erik came abruptly to his feet. "Daroga, you shall not take my wife out and have such a conversation with her in public. Look at her; you have upset her already."

"If you wish to determine who has done the vast majority of 'upsetting' her, Erik, I suggest you look in a mirror. Have you any of the things down here?"

"My decorating is none of your concern. And as for – "

Christine, who had turned from pink to bright red, mumbled miserably, "He can sit in here and play the piano, Monsieur. If we go into another room, he will not be able to hear us."

O-O-O O-O-O


	26. Chapter 26

_Chapter 26. April 1887. Second week after the wedding (continued)._

Erik, concealing his delight at the turn the conversation had taken, folded his arms and said, "Yes, that will certainly drown out any conversation from this room. So long as I am playing, you may be sure that I can not hear what you are saying."

The Persian regarded him suspiciously. Then he glanced at the massive grand piano, standing in all its polished majesty in the middle of the room. Not for Erik the custom of putting an upright piano back in one corner, so that it would be out of the way but satisfy the fashion for having one. "I suppose that would work," he muttered. Getting up and walking over to the instrument, he trailed the fingers of one hand over its gleaming wood, and said, as if to himself, "It can not be a player piano. It is a grand, after all." Turning to Erik, he asked, "I suppose you built it?"

"Of course. It would hardly have fitted in the boat, any more than the organ would have."

"Indeed." Abandoning the piano, Mihr moved toward the parlour door, looking at Christine with a raised eyebrow as he did. She rose, and followed him out. Erik heard the door between the dining room and the kitchen, one and two rooms over respectively, open and then shut, and then he went grimly to the piano and activated the mechanism that made it play all by itself. The Persian had spoken the truth; the piano did indeed _look_ like a completely normal grand piano. But it was not. Erik knew what Mihr had been looking for, the cumbersome clockwork mechanism and bulky paper rolls that marked a normal player piano. Of course Erik could do better than that, if he wanted automatic music! But that old dimwit, as usual, underestimated Erik's skill and imagination. If the sound of the piano would make Mihr think that his conversation with Christine was private, then the sound of the piano he would have.

This was the second week after their marriage. The abrupt cessation of their fledgling intimacy had also had the unfortunate effect of giving Erik space to begin remembering her admission to the Vicomte of having deceived her maestro. The precipitous marriage and its immediate aftermath, and, subsequently, the overwhelming ecstasy of the embraces they had so briefly been free to share, had driven it from his mind, caught up as it was in total adoration of her and the shock brought on by the sudden turn which events had taken.

But now his thoughts were clear enough for suspicion to creep back in. How could her affections have changed so fast? Were women really that fickle? And if they were, how could he trust that her baffling attachment to him would continue, or that she would not abandon him fully? Erik had tried to rein himself in, and tell himself that she was not refusing him entirely. This was natural, and furthermore she had no control over it. But even this level of refusal had given birth to a fear that he could not quell; a fear that, their newly physical relationship suspended, after having a week to think about it she would come to her senses and conclude that she did not wish it to resume.

He was under no illusions, after all, about what he looked like.

And so he simply had to hear this conversation. It was essential. That treacherous Persian would try his hardest to convince Christine to leave her husband. Erik was sure of it. No doubt the man wanted to get revenge on Erik for the episode of the torture chamber. And as for her, her mind was far too easily turned. Just look at what she had said on the rooftop. That she found Erik repulsive, that she was terrified of him…that she'd lied to him.

Lied to him again and again, for her own ends. How was he to know that she was not lying to him now? Though he had to admit that he could not really see what advantage she would gain from having married him coldly. But how could Erik, a mere man, hope to understand why women did what they did? How did he know what she might see as an advantage? Perhaps she thought she could not continue her career without his teaching. Would that consideration have been enough to make her marry a man who repelled her? It had not been, before. Indeed she had seemed more than willing to throw her career away in order to run off with that obnoxious boy.

And so, his emotions becoming more turbulent by the moment, he activated the device which started the piano playing, and then exited the house, glided round the back of it, and opened the speaking tube that went into the kitchen. The voices of the other two were instantly audible.

" – rather perplexing change of heart, Madame."

"I know." There was a distinctly sombre note in Christine's beautiful voice, and Erik tensed. _Why_ was she sombre?

Apparently Mihr heard it too, because he said urgently, "Madame, if you are being held here against your will I will help you escape."

"I thought you were Erik's friend."

"I am. Or at least, I used to be. But I can not stand by and watch him commit an evil act, and say nothing about it. I had to do that too many times in my country, where the shah's whims were law, and brutality was applauded and encouraged if it were sufficiently amusing. Here in France, there is no such need for me to keep silent, and I will not."

"I am not a prisoner, Monsieur. I married my husband by my own choice. I think he has already told you that." Her voice was slightly sharp. Erik understood; she hated having her word questioned. The daroga was skating on thin ice.

Then it occurred to Erik that Christine's moods were likely more volatile than usual, just now, given which week it was. The Persian's timing was particularly bad. Erik smirked to himself.

"Yes, he did. But I confess I was unable to believe him. You will comprehend, I hope, the reasons why."

"Yes, I can understand your difficulty, Monsieur. It was all so strange…so unexpected, and my memories of it are very vague now…the shock, I suppose. Looking back, it sometimes seems as though it was a different person who did all those things that night….I myself have trouble believing it all if I think too hard about it. And doing so just makes my head ache anyway. "

So did Erik's, just at the moment. The daroga's prompt refusal to believe this tale had made Erik begin to doubt as well, and Christine's fretful tone and uncertain words were not helping. If Mihr caused her to reconsider her choice…well, Erik would not be responsible for what happened as a result. Someone who convinced a woman to leave her lawful husband deserved whatever he got.

"It does not make much sense, on the face of it."

"No, Madame," said the daroga gently, "It does not, especially when one considers the _face of it_."

A wave of pure rage shot through Erik, and nearly made him miss Christine's response. Heatedly she said, "It has been a long time since it was my husband's face that was the problem, Monsieur."

Taken unawares by her rebuttal of the Persian's comment, Erik felt an unexpected shaft of grateful fondness. She was always so unfailingly kind. And to Erik, who did not deserve it.

"Is that so, Madame? If it is, you are an exceptionally broad-minded woman."

How dare this buffoon doubt her word yet again?

"I admit I found him hideous when I first saw his face," said Christine, and it was immediately back to the anger for her husband as he listened. But she went on, "There is no getting round the fact that he is dreadfully disfigured. But Monsieur, that is not his fault."

"Of course it is not," said Mihr coolly. "I have never said that it was. But his deeds are."

The insufferable dullard. Mihr of Mazanderan took morals far too seriously, and always had. Erik really did not know why he put up with the man when he was forever prating about the "right" thing to do. To hell with right and wrong, Erik's approach had always been. The rest of the world was blithely untroubled by whether the way it had treated Erik was right; so why should he care whether the things he did were "right" in others' eyes or not? They could go straight to the devil so far as he was concerned.

But Christine did care about what she believed was right, very much. And because Erik loved her, so he was now obliged to care about it as well. And she was currently speaking on just that topic to the daroga. He had better listen, to see if he could pick up any useful information.

"Monsieur, you said Erik told you of what transpired down here after he took you home. So then he must have told you of how…moved he was when shown the smallest bit of affection."

"Yes, he did. He said that you embraced him, and that that simple act broke him utterly. That he wept at your feet and completely gave up his attempt to marry you by force. That he rushed to release the Vicomte, and sent you away with him."

Did the two of them have to go on about what a pitiful wreck of a man he had been that night?

"Yes," said Christine softly. "That is how it happened. It did not seem as though he would do anything of the sort that night, I know. I had not foreseen the effect my…acceptance of him would have. But when he freed us, I saw that there must, after all, be some tiny scrap of feeling in him; that there was a chance he could become a better man after all."

"The man he should have been, had his situation been different," said Mihr, his voice low and even a bit wistful.

"Yes. I think perhaps I do not know him so well as you do. But I can tell he is…well, damaged. He does not react to things the way a normal man should. And yet, even so he is… the most compelling man I have ever known. He is the greatest musician I have ever seen, and music is so very important to me, Monsieur. It always has been. We share that. And he is my _husband_ now, and I must honour him. And he _needs_ me. It's nice to be needed. And I…I love him. I do!"

"You sound, Madame," said the Persian evenly, "as though you were attempting to convince yourself."

"I am not!" retorted Christine. "I am sorry, but I…I can not find the right words to say, I think. But Monsieur, I could not bear to live without Erik, having once known him. I can not. And I have no wish to commit the sin of breaking my marriage vows."

There was silence for a moment, and Erik waited, scarcely breathing, mingled pain, resentment and joy raging through him. He felt dizzy.

"I see," said Mihr slowly. "And he is not coercing you or threatening you in any way? He is not using his voice to control you again?"

"No!" Christine retorted vehemently. "Did you not hear what he and I told you? He changed, Monsieur, he _changed_. No one ever thought he would, but he did in the end. Does that mean nothing to you?"

"Madame, if it is true it would mean a very great deal to me indeed. It would mean that many things that have happened to me in the last twenty-five years have been for a reason."

"It _is_ true. And it is why I chose to stay with him. The Catholic religion teaches that we must forgive a repentant sinner! Does yours not?"

"No, it does," Mihr answered. "Allah is described as _Al-Ghaffur_ , or the Oft-Forgiving. As it happens, we are not recommended to forgive unbelievers; but I made that decision as regards Erik a very long time ago."

"Erik is a Catholic," said Christine proudly. "When I asked, he told me he had been baptized originally. He has done many dreadful things and he has not been devout for most of his life, but I am bringing him back to the Church, Monsieur!" She flung this at him, as though she expected him to be displeased by it. Likely because she knew he was a Mohammedan, Erik thought. But Mihr was also a particularly forbearing sort.

"I would expect nothing else of anyone who is strong in their own faith, Madame. And for what it is worth, Muslims recognize Christians as being worthy of especial regard, being 'People of the Book.' That is what we call those whose faith is based upon a revealed scripture, and one which Islam also venerates as divine ordinance."

If that rambling fool did not bring this conversation to a close soon, Erik would have to intervene. The disc which operated the piano had already played through once, and was just now starting over again. The other two were clearly caught up in their conversation, but would surely notice at some point that the tune was repeating itself. The Persian had demanded to be satisfied that Christine was not a wife by force; he did not need to sit in there and debate religion with her as well.

"Under normal circumstances, Madame, I would certainly never presume to question the new wife of a friend in this impudent manner. But, Erik being Erik, and these _specific_ circumstances being what they have been…I could not help but worry."

There was silence for a moment, and Erik fretted that it would cause them to notice the repeating song. But then Christine said, "No, I don't suppose you could. Are…are you not happy for Erik, now that he has finally repented? That he has found someone who could love him?"

"I would like to be happy for him, Madame. I would like to believe he has finally become a virtuous man. But…I made that mistake once before, when I helped him escape from Persia, at great cost to myself, because of the chance that he could change. He has so many talents…I wanted them to be used for the benefit of mankind. And…and he was my friend."

Erik was taken aback by the emotion in Mihr's voice. It made him quite uncomfortable. But Mihr _would_ indulge every so often in such nonsense, the sentimental old fool. Erik attempted to ignore it. "I see," said Christine, echoing Mihr's comment of a few minutes ago. "Monsieur, I believe with all my heart that this change is real. And…and we must do what is right, even if we do not know what may come of it."

"Yes, that is true," answered Mihr. "But Madame, Erik is fully capable of profoundly evil acts, and I feared that you might come to harm."

Christine said hesitantly, "Erik has not told me of much of his previous life. And I no longer believe that he would ever hurt me. But from what little he has told me, and from what I have seen him do in the few months that I have known him, I can surmise that…what you say about his capacity for evil is true."

"Very great indeed, Madame. I was unfortunate enough to see his capabilities first hand, in my country. I will say that Erik's…excesses were perhaps more pronounced than they might have been had he been left to his own devices. But the shah and some others of the royal family used him for ghastly entertainments to amuse the court, and encouraged him to explore and give free rein to his worst impulses."

That was the last straw. Erik was not going to allow that oaf to tell Christine of what had transpired in Persia. Having not yet had the chance to forbid him to do so, the only option left was to dart back into the house under cover of the piano music, fling himself onto the bench and shut off the disc. There was an instant silence from the kitchen as well, as the two conversationalists obviously ceased speaking once they did not have the privacy they thought they'd been enjoying. Erik sat with his elbows on the keyboard, breathing hard, and waited. Soon they emerged, Christine ruffled, Mihr scowling. Well, Erik could do that too, and much better. He shot his demon stare at the traitor.

"Are you quite finished now?" he snarled. "Did you have time enough to convince her to leave me?"

Christine returned the glare, which Erik ignored. Mihr said, "I take it you finally lost patience with us? I suppose I should be glad you held out as long as you did." He crossed the room and held out his right hand. When Erik stared at it, Mihr said, "Allow me to congratulate you on your marriage, old friend. You have a jewel in your wife."

Erik was momentarily nonplussed, and then all at once he lost his battle with his temper and snapped scathingly, "Go to hell." He shot to his feet, nearly knocking the startled Persian over, and stormed into the hallway, slamming the parlour door behind him. In his bedroom he half-fell onto the organ stool, activated its bellows, and began to play, his fingertips ramming against the keys as he rushed headlong into the most terrifying parts of his _Don Juan_.

O-O-O O-O-O


	27. Chapter 27

In which Erik's past resurfaces, in more ways than one.

 _Chapter 27. April 1887. Second week after the wedding (continued)._

Most of the time he could keep the memories of Persia from gaining mastery over him. And he was very good at it. He had had quite a lot of practice, after all. The daroga's mention of that time several weeks ago, as they both stood on the banks of the lake, had not been enough to disconcert him. He had been too preoccupied with the fact that the Persian had gotten that far into the sub-basements in the first place, and nearly penetrated Erik's defenses completely.

 _"You know what you promised me, Erik! No more murders!"_

 _"Have I really committed murders?" Erik asked mockingly, tilting his head to one side. This dolt was so angry he was beside himself, when it was his own fault that he'd nearly drowned. Erik would toy with him for a few minutes, before sending him on his way._

 _"Wretched man!" snapped the furious Persian. "Have you forgotten the rosy hours of Mazanderan?"_

 _"Yes. I prefer to forget them. I used to make the little sultana laugh, though!"_

 _Mihr had stood glaring at him for a moment, and then made a visible effort to calm himself. "All that belongs in the past," he said in a low voice, and then his head came back up and he glared once more. "But there is the present… and you are answerable to me for your present! Because if I had wished, there would have been none at all for you." He stabbed a finger in the air. "Remember that, Erik! I saved your life!"_

At this point, Erik had sent the irritating intruder away as fast as he could. The last thing he wanted was for those memories to destroy him, and in any case Erik's deeds there hadn't been his fault, had they? The fault had lain squarely at the feet of the shah and the others who wanted to see him commit atrocities. They were the guilty parties.

In the immediate aftermath of the daroga's daring rescue, escape had been paramount, and survival depended upon Erik's keeping his mind focused on it, to the exclusion of all else. And by the time he was out of the country, he had successfully buried the trauma of those memories deep within his mind. So deep, in fact, that the very next thing he had done had been to go to the Ottoman Empire and enter the service of its sultan in much the same manner as he had with the shah. That approach, after all, had worked splendidly before, and it did again – for a time. But once bitten is twice shy, and at the first inkling that the sultan's liking for him was waning, Erik had fled Constantinople as well. Sick of the barbarism of the East now and even a little appalled at what he had finally proved capable of, he had turned his sights toward home. France seemed a bastion of civilization, and he found himself longing for his own country, after all these years of travel. He had seen so much, and done more. He was nearing thirty, and feeling distinctly tired and disillusioned. It was time to go home.

But if he had left the worst of his black past behind him in the Orient, and sought to remake himself in a better image once back in Europe…that did not take away what he had once done. The past could not be changed. But Erik had been quite successful in forgetting about that. There were new things to see and do as he made his way back to France; and the Opera House to build once he got there, and the war with the Prussians. The war had then led to that exceedingly annoying curtailment of his movements, amounting almost to a house arrest,within the partly finished building that he had been subjected to during the fighting and the subsequent weeks of the Commune. It was really rather easy to forget about Persia, truth be told.

However, while Erik might be able to justify his past actions to himself, he knew Christine enough to fear that her reaction to hearing of his foul deeds would be quite different. She would no longer be willing to be his wife after learning of them. Her forgiveness would evaporate immediately, he was sure, if she knew what it was she was forgiving.

He had wanted more than anything to be loved for himself. At the time, he had been unable to see that his true self was, almost certainly, someone she could never love. Viewing himself now through her eyes revealed a vision of such shocking hideousness that he cringed away from it. In the end, his own face was not the ugliest possible thing to see in a mirror, for his soul was worse. And if by some chance she was right and God could forgive him all his crimes for a single act of selflessness…well, then God was a fool.

And so he played and played, trying to distract himself from his thoughts. No need for the score; he knew these sections perfectly. He'd played them often enough, when he was angry. In that manuscript was contained all the terrible and pitiful feelings of which man was capable. Burning hatred, sordid lusts, fear that pain and rage would overwhelm and humanity be lost. On and on he struck the keys and worked the stops and pedals, forgetting everything but the need to keep on, until his fingertips began to hurt and he finally realised that he was exhausted and sweating. He looked over at the clock on the wall, and saw that over two hours had gone by.

He had left the daroga and Christine alone together, and without, this time, listening in on them. What if Mihr, in Erik's absence, had seized the opportunity to tell Christine exactly what Erik had been fearing him telling her? What on earth had he been thinking to walk out like that? He leaped up, frantic.

In the parlour he found his wife sitting in a chair with her fingers in her ears. When she saw him she took them out and looked warily at him. She was alone. And she did not seem to be looking at him with revulsion. Perhaps the daroga had exercised restraint after all?

"Well?" he demanded harshly. "Where is that pompous ass of a Persian?"

"He left," said Christine, equally tartly. "And don't swear. He said that he could tell you did not want to see him just now, though he didn't know why. He told me he would come for a visit later, after you had got over your tantrum."

"Tantrum, is it?" snapped Erik. Not a word about Persia from her, so perhaps he was safe on that front, but he was also unable to decide whether to be relieved or angry at himself. He vented his spleen instead on the closest available target. "And how did you expect me to feel with you in there with him, letting him persuade your fickle mind into leaving Erik?" It was easier to think about their immediate past than his long-ago one. He had never thought he would deliberately recall the scene on the rooftop, but it was preferable to what else he had been contemplating.

"I am not _fickle_!" she retorted, outraged, and leaped up to race past him. He caught her arm and whirled her to face him.

"And what else would you call it? Bear in mind, Madame, that I heard you up on the roof!" As he rashly substituted one concern for another, all the bitterness and pain he had felt that night were rushing back, and his temper began to get away from him yet again. "I _heard_ you swear that you were disgusted by me, that you were filled with horror of me – " All things that she might feel again if she learned of his history. Diversion was a powerful thing. Taking the coward's way out, he abruptly became furious at her in lieu of himself, over something he hadn't even been thinking about two minutes previously.

"Erik, stop, you are being unreasonable – "

His control stretched paper-thin, and then broke without warning.

"That you _lied to me for weeks_!" He seized her other arm, and backed her up against a wall, leaning down to shout into her face. "You lied, Christine! I heard you admit to it! How do I know you are not still lying? _How_? Tell me!"

Her response was instantaneous. "Take your hands off me!" she screeched in outrage, twisting, and then she tried to knee him. He wasn't expecting it, and she managed to hit him high up on the thigh just as his reflexes jolted to life. They allowed him to deflect the impact enough to avoid actual injury, but it had been a long time since any assailant had managed to land a blow on him, and it startled him enough to make him realise what he was doing.

He was holding his wife pinned against an unyielding wall, with his hands like iron clamps round her arms. Her expression was appalled. What was the _matter_ with him?

Stammering an apology, he released her and backed away, falling into a chair and burying his masked face in his hands. He heard Christine stamp her foot.

"If you felt like that about me, you should never have married me," she stated. "And if you felt like that, and married me anyway, then you are a fool."

"Yes, Erik is a fool," he mumbled despondently. "And he is a monster to treat you so. You will probably have bruises on your arms now."

"It's not the first time you've bruised my arms, but I admit I did not think I had to worry about that happening again," she said cuttingly, and he cringed as he heard her walk over to another chair and sit down.

"I am sorry," he managed to say. "But Christine…much as I want to, I can not burn from my mind my memory of your words that night."

She sighed, and it was some time before she said, "No. I do not expect you can. Any more than I can burn from mine a lot of things you have said."

This had not occurred to Erik, and he was disconcerted. "I…apologize," he said awkwardly. "I…did not intend for…anything I did to still be hurting you, this much later."

"Well, as you just said yourself, two weeks is not enough for some words to lose their power to hurt, Erik."

Yes, he had said that. But he had been only thinking of his own pain. A married man, however, had to think of his wife's wellbeing. Erik paused, and then thought that perhaps he ought to know what words of his she was referring to. He knew so little of how to make a woman love you; any information on what _not_ to do would be critically necessary in order to keep her.

"Ah…what things are you speaking of?"

She sighed again, and then whispered, "When…on our wedding night…when you called me a…when you accused me of being unchaste. When you…really believed it of me."

Erik had nearly forgotten about that. That quarrel was over, in his mind; anger dissipated, misunderstanding cleared up. There was no further reason to think about it. It was strange to him that anything he'd said during that time might still matter to Christine. He looked at her, puzzled; she was biting her lip, and there were tears standing in the corners of her eyes.

"I…" he started, and then realised that he really had no idea what to say or do to fix the situation. "I am _sorry_ ," he repeated finally, voice pulsating with emotion, and stayed bent forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands back over his eyes. He was afraid to look at her and see the hurt expression on her beautiful face, hurt that he had caused. Oh God, he did not know how to love her properly, as she deserved. How was he going to manage this responsibility he had so recklessly taken on?

But Christine said, "Oh, thank you," and she came and perched on the arm of his chair, and put her hand on his. He turned swiftly and wrapped his arms around her, clinging to her desperately. He could not live if she left him. Not after knowing what it was to be her husband. Erik was going to have to find some way to learn to control his temper.

"Poor Erik. I am sorry you had to hear those things up on the roof." She was sweet and forgiving once more; what power an apology seemed to have. He was too overwrought to think, just then, of the persuasive passion that had throbbed in his tone.

"It was Erik's fault he was following you," he said, his voice muffled against her bosom. "You thought you were alone. You deserved to be let alone, but Erik could not do it."

"I would never have said those things if I knew you were hearing them."

"But you would still have thought them," he groaned. "Erik was making you think them. He treated you abominably. Why did you marry him, Christine?"

"Because he changed – _you_ changed," she corrected herself. "And I knew I could not stand to be without you."

He held to her all the tighter, praying that she spoke the truth. "Do you love Erik, Christine?" he asked, hating the plaintiveness in his tone but surprisingly unable to stop himself from sounding that way.

"Yes."

"Well, I love you," he said petulantly, "And I can not live without you." The self-protective part of his brain, never quiet for long, began to move again. "What did that dam – that Persian say? Did he try to convince you to leave Erik?" She did not know he had been listening. This would be a good test of whether she would lie to him if she thought she could not be caught out, as well as telling him whether they had conversed further after he left to go play the organ.

"No. He only asked me to explain why I had married you, and to swear that I did so according to my own will and desires. Once I answered to those things, when out of your presence, he was willing to believe it, and then we talked a bit about you, until you interrupted us. Before he left he offered his congratulations to me, since you had refused them, and best wishes for both of us."

"He was lying."

"He did not seem to be so to me. After you went off in a huff I helped him find his way out through the new tunnel to the Rue Scribe."

"You did what?!"

" _Erik_!" she scolded. "Calm down. The man already knows multiple other ways to get in here, what difference does it make if he now knows one more?"

"Because I wanted to have at least one entrance to and from here that he could not penetrate."

"But that is the easiest way out. Now he can come visit us without you having to go and fetch him."

"His ignorance of that shortcut here helped prevent us from being continually bothered by him. If he had to take the long way round it was some protection against his being on my doorstep whenever the whim took him."

"Erik. Is he your friend or is he not?"

"He enjoys flattering himself that he is."

Christine exhaled, sounding exasperated. Erik begged, "Christine, do not be angry with me." Without waiting for an answer, he dragged her onto his lap. She came willingly, and leaned her cheek against his masked one. This was comforting for a little while. But very soon he began to want her, and he could not have her. Not just now, anyway. He lifted her off of him and stood up, intending to escape somewhere; anywhere.

"Where are you going?"

"I – I do not know. Perhaps I am…not going anywhere."

"Can we go for a walk?"

"If you wish," he said dully, and glanced at a clock; it was six in the evening already. "Are you sure you are well enough?"

"Yes," she said, turning pink. "I'm not – not actually _ill_." Erik took her at her word, grateful to abandon the subject once reassured that she was all right.

Finding and assuming the lifelike mask, changing to a walking dress, and locating keys and gloves and so on, and then going up above and to the Bois, took them some time, so that it was sunset as they were strolling through the park. Christine seemed much happier, and eventually asked to go to a restaurant for dinner. Experiencing the pleasure of living like a normal man, with a pretty, smiling wife on his arm, and the sights and sounds of an elegant bistro, its patrons taking no more notice of him than of anyone else there, soothed away Erik's bad mood, for a time. When they returned home, she went to bed, but he was restless and uneasy. After pacing the length of the parlour a bit, he felt a growing desire to play some instrument. That had always been the best way for him to calm himself. But now there were other considerations. The sound would wake Christine. He must go someplace else to make his music.

Doing this in the upper parts of the Opera worked best in the very early hours of the morning, when even the night watchmen and the boilermen had gone to bed. That was why Christine's lessons had taken place at that time. But at this time in the evening there was too much risk of being overheard. There was one spot, however, that was so far away from everything else that it would be safe to make as much noise as he wanted…if he could bear to go to it again.

The rooftop of the Opera had once been one of Erik's favourite places. Heights troubled him not at all, and up there he could get some fresh air without having to come in contact with people. He could watch the sun set and rise, or the stars, and look down, unseen and unmarked, upon the denizens of Paris moving about their lives, small as ants from his vantage point. No one screamed, or pointed fingers, or complained about his very reasonable requests for compensation for his work as "the ghost." No one harangued him about promises made long ago in far-off countries, or followed him about irritatingly. Up on the roof, Erik could find peace and quiet for a mind that was ceaselessly restive.

But the last time he had been there was when he pursued Christine and her pet nobleman up there and heard her say the damning words that described how greatly she feared Erik, how ugly she found him, and how much she'd lied to him to secure her freedom from the teacher who'd been revealed to be a monster. Bitter irony, that, that one of the most dreadful moments of his life should take place in his sanctuary in the sky. Since then Erik had not been there once, and the memory was so recent... could he bring himself to revisit it now?

He stood in one place, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet in indecision. The urge for music warred with his desire to stay far away from the scene of his anguish, and won. And, once up on the roof, it was easier than he had expected to recall all the years that this spot had been a place of refuge for him, and to let those good memories wash away the one bad one. The little Vicomte was unimportant, for Christine had, ultimately, rejected him and chosen Erik. Soon, very soon, de Chagny would leave on his mission to the far north, and that would be an end to it. The painful memory withered in the wind and blew away, and the roof was wholly Erik's again. He played far into the night.

O-O-O O-O-O


	28. Chapter 28

_Chapter 28. April 1887. Second week after the wedding (concluded)._

At home, he threw himself into starting work on some new automatons. Christine had demanded a few days ago that he cease extorting funds from the Opera House, and he had decided he would turn to selling his creations for an income instead. Money was not an issue just at present, but women, he had already learned, cost a good deal, and he would not have her wishing she had married that snivelling boy, with his wealth and his title, _and_ his perfect face. Erik would provide her with jewels and dresses and dinners out instead, though a gift of a handsome countenance was beyond his skills.

So for that purpose, and the additional and not inconsequential one of providing a distraction from desiring his wife until such time as she was no longer indisposed, he shut himself up in his workroom for two days and nights and worked like a fiend. Maybe if he exhausted himself sufficiently he would be able to lie down virtuously next to Christine and go to sleep without dying of need of her. But this plan did not meet at all with Christine's approval. By the second day he was fatigued enough to forget to lock the workroom door after going to get a glass of water, and she began to flit in and out irritatingly, bringing him food, bringing him wine, asking questions and getting in his way, nagging, sniping, and then eventually pleading with him to pay attention to her. It was the pleading that finally filtered through to his brain, obsessed with his task as it currently was, and at her insistence he reluctantly gave up working to come sit by the fire with her. This only resulted in his falling asleep in his chair, and when she said peevishly, "What is wrong with you?" he jerked awake.

"I am tired, Christine, that is all. Stop whining; you chose to marry an old man."

"I'm not whining! Why do you think it's all right to ignore me and do nothing but work for days? I do not know many young men who could work as long as you have! Why must you do that?"

He was too exhausted to be circumspect with his words.

"To avoid you," he said snidely, and went back into his workroom to sleep on the floor. That remark earned him nearly a full day of furious silence, and between quarrels and feminine troubles, in the end it was a week before he was allowed his rights again. But ultimately his fears about her choosing not to resume their intimacies proved, mercifully, groundless.

O-O-O

 _July, 1887. Three months after the wedding._

Now, months later, Erik was once again barred from such delights, though this time by his own uncertainties. He wished she were there on his lap right now. But she was not. Instead she was in bed asleep, with her body harbouring his child. He had never thought a woman might do that…

But there was still the looming possibility that it would come out a monster, like its sire, and he shrank from that prospect. If he had burdened her with a demon for a child, she would feel quite differently about him than she did now. Her sweet words of assurance that she would stay with him were soothing, but he could not help but think how dreadful it would be to be deprived of her love at some future time. If anything, the more sympathetic she acted, the more frightened he became of being without her.

Without her... and there was still the hideous fear that she might die. He wanted very much to believe the daroga's assertion that that was not very likely; but the Persian was, as he himself had said, no physician. Erik would have to consult some medical manuals, and perhaps a doctor or two as well. More than anything, he hated being ignorant of the characteristics of a potential danger. Safety was to be found in power, and power was to be found in, firstly, knowledge, and secondly, skill. The latter he did not have in the field of obstetrics, but the former could be acquired with relative ease.

But he was too tired to do any reading now. Tired enough that he could perhaps manage to lie chastely next to Christine? She would be upset with him if he slept on the couch all night. Slowly he rose off of it, and returned to their bedroom, changed into a nightshirt and slid between the sheets with a sigh of relief – and resignation, as he kept an honourable distance between himself and the enticing form of his wife, waist and hip outlined by the bedcovers as she slept on her side with her back turned to him. Just as well that he was this tired…the ability, long held and practised, to exercise restraint over carnal desires had once been nearly second nature. But it seemed to have departed with shocking swiftness, and the years of self-control had fallen away from him as if they had never existed. Keeping his hands off her was often an impossibility, and he had to admit he rarely tried very hard. Best not to curl up with her, tonight; better, sometimes, not to tempt oneself, fatigue or not. At least now he _could_ sleep while in the same bed as her.

That first night they actually spent lying together in a bed, which was of course not their wedding night but some days later because Erik had been such a blockhead on their actual wedding night, had been a sleepless one for him. Christine, strung out from their quarrel in the parlour, had fallen asleep fairly soon. But between the unfamiliarity of being both in an actual bed and with another person, and the desire that had reawakened the second he saw the shape of her body through her night-dress, Erik had spent most of the night lying awake. He wasn't particularly tired just then; during the period of their estrangement he had slept rather a lot in his room. His body had still been exhausted from the events of the previous few days and his having gone without sleep during most of them, and there was also not much else to do in there other than compose. So now he did not even have fatigue to help him drift off. Instead he lay there watching her and obsessing, his mind running in circles. He had allowed himself the liberty of caressing her hair, fanned out over the pillow as it was, and had indulged in things he would have been humiliated to have her see him do, winding the curls around his fingers and gathering up great golden masses of it in his hands so that he could rub his face against the silkiness.

Eventually he had dozed a little bit, early in the morning hours, but woke up instantly when she sat up in bed. The awkwardness had returned, neither of them really knowing what to say. After a few failed attempts at conversation, Christine had gotten up and gone into the bathroom, and he lay there and listened to her running the water and moving about. And then she came back in…and their eyes had met…and marvellously, unbelievably, she'd come back into bed with him. He'd been torn in two directions, between the cringing fears of hurting her and humiliating himself both, and the violent need of her that raged in him as though it had never been satisfied. But she hadn't objected when he drew up her night-dress, or when his hands, _his_ hands, crept uncertainly over her, in an awkward, trembling fashion which he hated. He was used to being a master at the arts he practised, making them look like magic, whereas in this, he was as unskilled as the most callow of youths, and it was mortifying.

But Christine hadn't seemed to mind. Instead, she'd caressed him hesitantly as well, put her hand on his head when he bent his mouth to her glorious breasts. And when the fire in his blood became too much to resist any longer and he moved clumsily to take her, she yielded with a sweetness that made his heart ache so that he cried out from it. Once they were joined, it was as if all were made suddenly right with the world, and instinct took over. A good thing, too, as he was no longer capable of any rational thought whatsoever.

In retrospect, Erik considered, that…third, had it been?… time could not have been particularly enjoyable for Christine. He'd known, of course, that there were things one could do for a woman, but he'd been mostly unable to remember any of what he'd read and seen, and his magician's hands hadn't been working right at all, quivering and refusing to do his bidding properly. Waves of contradictory emotions washed over him till his head swam and he felt nauseous, and all his iron willpower had evaporated like so much insubstantial mist. He had probably hurt her a bit again. But if so, she had not shown it. And once the edge had been taken off his own desire enough for him to think, he'd turned his formidable powers of concentration on learning to please her. And succeeded…

He tucked an arm under his head, and closed his eyes.

The next morning, Erik rose before Christine did. He went to his bookshelves and took down every medical text he possessed. These had been all been chosen with one of two goals in mind; either research for the making of his automatons, the better to make them as realistic as possible, or information to have on hand in the unlikely event that he needed to doctor himself. That being the case, they were less than ideal in terms of enlightenment on childbearing. He put them back on the shelves, frustrated. He would have to go and purchase some new ones. It was certainly not that he planned on bringing the baby himself – Christ, he hoped such an emergency would not occur – but he wanted to be well informed as to what to expect, both for himself and Christine, and how best to help her through the months of her pregnancy.

As he was putting the last book away, he heard a heart-rending moan from the bedroom. With his own heart in his mouth, he rushed in, and found Christine lying in bed green-faced and grimacing.

"Christine, what is the matter?"

"I – I – get out of my way!" She leaped up and rushed past him suddenly, slamming the bathroom door, and he heard the sound of retching.

Ah. So they'd reached this point. He knew enough about pregnant women to know that being ill in the mornings was both common and unlikely to be fatal, and his fear eased a bit. When Christine lurched out of the bathroom, he helped her to lie back down, fetched a cold cloth, and laid it over her sweaty forehead.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "You must be disgusted by me."

"Hush. Stay in bed, my darling, and I'll fetch you something to settle your stomach."

"I can't possibly bear swallowing anything."

"I'll make you some tea," he said firmly, and went out of the bedroom, shutting the door silently behind him. In the kitchen, he set water on to boil, and stood before the spice cabinet, thinking. Ginger, certainly; perhaps some honey to soothe her throat? Peppermint was also useful in combating nausea, but it could not be combined with the other two; the taste would be vile. He would try the ginger first, and if it did not work, then maybe peppermint next. He peeled and sliced a ginger root carefully, and when the kettle whistled, he poured the hot water over the pieces. While it steeped, he searched through the cupboards for something else to comfort her. Normally sweets would be his first choice, but not now, with her stomach upset. Fruit? She was very fond of it. He cut some up and put it on a plate. The tea seemed strong enough now, and he strained it, added honey, and loaded up a tray with the teapot, a cup and saucer, and the fruit on its dish. Carrying it down the hall, he entered the bedroom again and surprised his wife in the act of hooking up the front of her corset.

"Christine! What the hell are you doing?!"

"Don't swear!" she scolded him. "You'll have to stop doing that before the baby comes!"

"Are you mad? You are ill! Get back in bed!" he bellowed, outraged.

"I'm not ill! I feel fine now, and I don't want to stay in bed all day, I've things I want to do!" She turned so she could see her back in the mirror, grasped her laces, and pulled.

"Stop that! What are you doing, putting that thing on? It can't possibly be good for you or the child!"

"Nonsense," she said briskly, knotting the laces across her front. "The doctor said there was no danger in wearing my corsets for a while yet, and anyway I can't get into any of my dresses without them. I ordered some new things when I was out yesterday. The receipt's on your desk. I bought several dresses that can be let out through the waist, and some new underthings. The dressmaker thought I ought to get three pairs of gestation stays, so I did."

"Pairs of _what_?!"

"Gestation stays," she repeated, looking surprised. She pulled on a petticoat and fastened it. "You know, corsets for me to wear when I'm bigger."

"When you're – you shall do no such thing. That can not be healthy."

"It is too! They're apparently quite comfortable, and they'll have openings over my stomach with lacings, so I can let them out gradually. Hardly any boning at all; just two at the back, and buttons down the front instead of a busk. I'm not going without any support at all, Erik."

She finished buttoning up her house dress, pinned on a brooch, smoothed her coiled hair, and went past him, glancing down at the tray as she went and saying, "Oh, I don't need that now, I want some real breakfast. And I'm going to practice some more cooking; you'll have to tell me what you want for dinner. And don't say you don't care, either." She went down the hall and into the kitchen.

Her husband stared after her, stupefied, and then down at the cooling teapot. It was going to be a long seven months.

O-O-O O-O-O


	29. Chapter 29

_Chapter 29. July 1887. Monday._

"You are quite certain it is safe?"

"Yes, Monsieur. So long as the pregnancy continues to progress normally, there is generally no harm in the husband and wife continuing to engage in marital relations."

" 'Generally,' " repeated Erik. "You mean, then, that you can not give me absolute reassurance?"

"I should be committing malpractice if I did," replied the grey-bearded doctor calmly. "The mysteries of the human reproductive system are not completely understood; they may never be. It is possible that in some cases, when the pregnancy is already precarious, intercourse might be dangerous to the woman or the child. But I have been in practice for over forty years, Monsieur, and I have observed that if a woman is going to lose a pregnancy, she generally does, no matter what preventive procedures are undertaken; and conversely, if she is not going to, very little can derail the natural progression of the parturient process – bar, of course, when the woman resorts to abortifacients, which Madame Villeneuve will of course not be doing. And I can tell you that there are no signs whatsoever of any trouble with her. She is in excellent health, and at her age there are not likely to be any complications. No, I think there is little risk to either her or the child if you continue to indulge. A bit of caution will be called for in the last month or two, but that is a fair way off yet. It is kind of you to be so concerned, however. Many women would be overjoyed to have such a solicitous husband."

 _I doubt that_ , thought Erik, but he did not say so, not caring to discourse on his assorted marital difficulties with another. He was, however, quite favourably impressed with this physician; old Dr. Durand was Christine's usual doctor, and after speaking to two others, Erik had decided that he ought not distress his wife by insisting she go to a new one if he found Durand worthy; after all, the man had examined Christine already and would be therefore more qualified to discuss her case.

The agreement of all three of the medical opinions which he now had to pick from was encouraging. So too was the fact that Dr. Durand, unlike the others, had not batted an eye about the mask. The new lifelike one had proved imperfect, and Erik was attempting to refine it still further, but for the time being he was back to the black silk one. But he found Durand easy to talk to – or rather, as easy as any person was, to Erik – and now brought up the second issue he was worried about.

"Doctor, I wish also to consult with you about the possibility of... birth defects."

"I see," said the doctor. "Am I to understand, then, that whatever you feel you must conceal about your face is something that you were born with? I had thought that perhaps you were injured in the war."

"Yes, I was born with... I was... born this way," said Erik, hating the way he could not find words which he could express smoothly. Why was it only this issue that undid him like this? With gritted teeth he sought to reassert dominion over his emotions. "I have married quite late in life, and so now I must be concerned about the possibility of passing my appearance on to my offspring. I wanted your opinion on whether that was likely."

"Very well," replied the doctor. "Yes, there are some deformities which can be inherited, and others which generally are not, to the best of the medical profession's understanding. Birth defects are actually not very common at all, when compared to the overall number of children born. The mother's health is sometimes a factor, but one which we need not worry about in this case. But, Monsieur... it will be difficult for me to give you more specific advice unless I can see the deformity in question."

Erik considered this. It did not seem an unreasonable request, unfortunately. Of course the poor man could not give specifics without being in possession of all the relevant information. Could he bring himself to reveal his shame to the doctor? Using glimpses of his face to scare the inhabitants of the Opera was one thing, but standing here in an examining room in broad daylight, before this kindly old fellow whom he found he actually rather liked…

Yes, he thought he could. He had to know; if there was a strong likelihood that the child would be deformed, emergency measures would have to be taken before Christine got too far along. The longer one waited to terminate a pregnancy, the more dangerous it would be for the woman, and it would take him a bit of time both to acquire the necessary substances and to find a way to get them into Christine without her knowledge, as there was no way she would ever agree to it. The priests might say that such an action was a mortal sin, but... in Erik's opinion, it was far from being the worst thing he had ever done.

And besides, giving Dr. Durand a look at the face of Death might be a good way of taking the man's measure. If Erik was to relinquish Christine into Durand's hands when the time came, he wanted to be very, very sure that the doctor was able to deal with anything untoward that might occur. With a gracefulness born of long habit, he rose to his feet. As usual when standing upright, he loomed over the other man. The doctor was a solidly built man, but of only average stature, which meant that Erik towered over him by at least six inches. He had always enjoyed the increased ability to intimidate which his unusual height gave him, and the feeling of power partially took his mind off what he was doing, as he raised his left hand and swept off both wig and mask.

Dr. Durand passed the unexpected test admirably. True, his eyes flew wide open and his monocle fell out, and he swallowed hard. But Erik felt he could forgive the man that, especially as the doctor recovered his composure quickly, replaced his eyepiece, and, with a control over his voice that would have done credit to Erik himself, politely requested that Erik sit down again and allow his face to be examined more closely.

Erik did so, his jaw clenched. He had exposed his deformity dozens of times, of course, to his mother, in the travelling fairs, and before his hapless victims in the shah's prisons; in the Opera he had been wont to deliberately show himself to its denizens while unmasked, the better to cement the ghost's fearsome reputation. But no one other than Christine had ever looked at him this closely or for this long, and in such bright light. He would have liked to close his eyes, but did not, keeping them fixed instead on the physician, to check for any sign of fright or repulsion.

Dr. Durand evinced nothing other than professionalism, however, as he peered closely at Erik's face from all angles, gently felt the bones that protruded under the thin skin, and asked questions quietly, such as, "Do you suffer from pain? No? That is good. Is it difficult for you to eat? Do you find your ability to taste food impeded? And how is your sense of smell? Are you subject to catarrh, or pneumonia? How is your vision?"

Erik answered each question as best he could. When the doctor took a seat in front of him, he breathed a sigh of relief. The examination appeared to be over.

"Monsieur, I think there is not much danger of your child being deformed," began Dr. Durand. "Your disfigurement appears to be merely a randomly occurring birth defect. It is... particularly severe, I grant you, but I see no signs indicating that it is hereditary. I assume there was no history of such a thing in your family?"

Erik shook his head jerkily.

"Well, then. There you have it. Sometimes these things simply happen. Only God knows why. With this concern also I can not give you absolute reassurance; but it is my professional opinion that this child, and any others you and your wife may be blessed with, are in no greater danger of being born disfigured than anyone else's. Which is to say, very little."

Erik released the breath he had been holding. "I see," he said slowly.

The doctor smiled sympathetically. "Most children are born normal, Monsieur Villeneuve. I think yours will be too. But, in the event that they are not, they will at least be lucky enough to have a father who can teach them how to make their way in the world with such a burden."

Erik was taken aback. He had not thought of it in that light at all, being far more afraid that he would be responsible for unleashing another monster upon an unsuspecting world – and an unsuspecting mother. But he was not sure at all that his methods of 'making his way in the world' were anything that should be held up as an example.

"Monsieur – " The doctor was speaking again. "Have you considered surgery at all? The outcome would not be certain, but it is possible that it would help. I see that – "

"You do not need to tell me that there are such procedures available," hissed Erik, cutting the other man off and leaping to his feet, towering over the startled physician. "I am an extremely educated man, and I have travelled extensively through parts of the world where physicians have been performing such surgeries for centuries. I have read more texts on the subject than you even know exist, I assure you." Seething, he replaced his wig and mask quickly, then snatched up his hat and cloak. "Neither you nor any of your colleagues will have the opportunity to experiment on the monster."

He slammed his way out of the doctor's house, knowing he had made a spectacle of himself. Christine must find another doctor. This well-meaning old fool was completely unsuitable. Furiously he stalked along the sidewalk, scattering other passersby before him like startled insects fleeing an oncoming bat, till he could turn off onto a less-used street.

Paying little attention to where he was going, he strode along, his mind in turmoil and his fingers flexing, wishing to hit something or someone. At length the exercise diminished his anger, and a black despair took over.

He was a damned thing. Born twisted and deformed, both inside and out; a creature to be feared and despised by all decent people. God had made his face the way it was to warn people of the horror of Erik, to warn away everything that was good and pure. He had tried for much of his life to believe that his face was in and of itself the root of all the dreadful things that had happened to him... but somewhere far inside his mind, so far that he could ignore its existence most of the time, the knowledge had always been there that it wasn't his face, it was _him_. _He_ was irreparably flawed, and his face only the outer indication of the loathsome vileness within. He'd been born bad, and there was nothing to be done about it.

He'd told the doctor the truth; he had devoured every text and treatise he could get his hands on concerning the subject of surgical correction of facial defects, and there were plenty in the East. Surgeons had indeed been performing, and writing on the performing of, such surgeries for a very long time. With the Orientals' penchant for cutting off noses as punishment for condemned criminals, adulterous wives, and captured soldiers, there was a need in their societies for ways of remedying the mutilation, and so methods had arisen to attempt to fill that need. He'd read as much as he could find, desperately searching for a glimmer of hope that his situation might be improved, even a little.

But he could find none. His face was surely beyond the pale of anything anyone else had ever had to deal with. Why else did others react to him as they did? Running, screaming, seeking to hurt him even if he had never done a thing to them? Wanting him to use his talents and his ingenuity for their benefit, and ever more horrible ends? No, God had intended him to be this way, and deep inside he feared to try to change it.

He had reached the Seine. He stopped and put his hands on the railing, curling his long fingers around the cold metal. It was not only the deep and capricious remnants of what remained of his childhood religious indoctrination that stopped him from considering surgery on his face. It was also a cringing terror of lying helpless under the hands of other men while they jabbed and peered at the exposed evidence of his evil nature, secure in their superiority as they deigned to help a poor pitiable being who did not even deserve to be called a man. It was the overwhelming fear that they might overpower him if he surrendered himself to them thusly, either to lock him up in the prison he surely deserved, or to haul him off to be studied by scientists under piercingly bright lights. He knew himself to be a freak of nature, on many levels. If he were a normal man, he would be quite keen to examine such a unique specimen. He was not concerned about undergoing anaesthesia, as he would have simply refused it; pain was nothing to incapacitation. He had suffered pain many times, and survived. He was not afraid of it. No, it was the loss of control that frightened him the most, by far.

So, he'd turned away from the possibility, faint as it might be, of any help that the medical profession might offer him. His face was his face, and he must learn to overcome the assorted difficulties it brought him as best he could. And he must do so alone, without any help or succour from anyone. No one else could offer him anything; no one else, after all, had to live with his face.

He brought his head up sharply. Christine! Christine had to live with it now, didn't she? Day in and day out? And... and the child...

It wasn't only him anymore, was it?

Could he willingly condemn her to continue to live out her life with a monster? Could he condemn his child to have one for a father? Force both of them to live with the prejudice that would be thrown their way, all because of him? Suppose she eventually came to the point of being unable to bear it any longer? Could he continue to live with the fear of ultimately losing her to a man with a face that was not abhorrent? Could he do so... knowing that there was a chance, however small, that his face might be improved, even a little?

He exhaled slowly, and drew his cloak tightly around him, staring wretchedly out at the black water. No other man had to decide this. No other husband had to stand in the darkness, wondering whether it was worth risking all that Erik would risk by surrendering to the surgeons, or whether it was better to take the chance of his wife deciding to run from him. No, it was only Erik that must suffer such misery. Even when he found a bit of happiness, he must worry all the time that it would be taken from him.

He thought of his child screaming in terror the first time he leaned over the cradle; then of himself screaming as his limbs were bound and he was taken prisoner. And he had no idea which would be worse. It was an unfamiliar feeling, this recognition that there might be something in the world more terrible than a loss of the dignity and autonomy that made life marginally bearable.

Life was so _complicated_ now that Christine was in the picture. Before, he'd thought his life was difficult, but now he saw with startling clarity just how simple it had really been. Then, whenever he was faced with any decision, he had only to think of what would be most beneficial for Erik. That settled, he could proceed. But now he had to consider her. And it was so very hard, when his first impulse was still to be concerned only with what _he_ wanted or needed! What right had he to have a wife, under those circumstances?

For example, he did not want any further contact with Dr. Durand, especially not now that the physician would surely want to know why Erik had reacted in such a fashion. But if he forbade Christine to go to the man any more, she would want to know why, and he did not want to tell her. True, he could simply snap at her that she was to obey him; she would probably do it. She seemed to want very much to be a good wife, for some reason. But then she would cry, and he would feel like a dog. Being married was supposed to be joyful, not a tangled mess of problems and misunderstandings. Surely, he must be having such difficulties purely because he was simply not suited for it.

He was not suited for happiness.

After a time he ceased staring blankly out at the river and turned away, heading back to the Opera. He would have liked very much to go up and sit on the roof, soothing himself with solitude, but he had promised his wife he would be home for dinner. And so, like a good husband, he went home.

Home was bright and welcoming, almost disorientingly so. Good smells wafted out from the kitchen, and Christine popped out of it, swathed in an apron and covered in flour. She was as red as an apple, and little tendrils of hair curled beautifully around her flushed face. She kissed him, giving him a faint taste of raspberry jam, and said breathlessly, "Oh, you're back! I was afraid you mightn't be in time to eat dinner when it's at its best. Go and wash up, I've already set the table."

Heading for her bathroom, which was closer, Erik walked slowly down the hall, looking at all of Christine's things, now restored to their proper places, that signified her presence in his home and in his life. In the bathroom, her potions and powders were spread over the countertop, and there were jars of many-coloured bath salts on the shelf by the tub. And there was her silver-backed hairbrush, with strands of her glorious hair caught in its bristles. He pulled a few out and wound them around an index finger pensively.

He should have allowed her to marry someone else. Bad enough that he had to live with his face; what right had he to subject the woman he loved to it, for the rest of their lives? He took off his mask and stared morosely at his reflection in the mirror which would not even have been there, if not for Christine. Yes, it was just as bad as always. Surely he hadn't been expecting it to be different? He thought again of lying supine on an operating table, completely exposed and vulnerable, seeing the disgust, or worse, the avid curiosity, in the surgeons' faces as they leaned over him. He shuddered, and turned away.

Erik was silent during dinner, thinking gloomily that other husbands did not have to keep their heads turned carefully away from their wives, so as to spare them the sight of the worst of the deformity engaged in mastication. No doubt Christine would prefer not to have to watch it, either. He wondered if she ever thought of what her life might have been like had she married someone else, and felt that he had been unbearably selfish to prevent her from doing so. But when he pictured her married to some other man, and his hands on her, Erik's blood boiled in his veins. Which was not overly helpful. Christine allowed him his sullen silence for a time, but finally refused to let it continue any longer.

"You are very quiet tonight," she observed, slicing the onion tart that had been the source of the flour earlier. "Was dinner not to your liking?"

"Not at all. It was fine."

"Only 'fine'?"

"All right then, it was marvellous. Happy?"

"No. I want to know why you are in a bad mood. Did I do something wrong?"

"No."

"Did someone in the Opera do something you took exception to?"

"No more so than usual."

"Are you having difficulties with your new opera?"

"No."

"How about your experiments?"

"No."

"Is your work on your new automatons going well?"

"Yes."

"Then why won't you talk to me?"

"I was thinking."

"About what?"

He was in no humour to tell her what was actually on his mind, or to continue this interrogation. He reached for a compliment to fend her off for a while.

"You look exceptionally beautiful tonight."

"Do I?" she replied, smiling.

She did, actually, he realised, in a pretty yellow polonaise that fitted her still-trim figure to great advantage. It ought to be unlawful for a bodice to so tightly hug the tempting curves it contained. He would have to have a stern word with her dressmaker.

"What else were you thinking?" she purred. He caught her gaze and held it meaningfully. It had been three days, as he had not wanted to take any risks until after speaking to the doctors. Perhaps she was feeling... deprived... ? Certainly she must be wondering why he'd avoided intimacy for that long, and right after their most recent days-long quarrel. But as marital relations were apparently safe after all…

He dropped his eyes from hers long enough to inspect her dress again. She had changed swiftly after finishing the preparations for their dinner, into something more appropriate for the evening. He should have noticed and done the same, but he had been too preoccupied with his thoughts to do so and was still in the same frock coat he'd been wearing all day. Well-off couples changed into dinner attire every night, even when only amongst their families, but down here with no one to judge themselves against, he and Christine could easily end up at the table in their dressing gowns, should they be disinclined to make a fuss over that particular meal. So she must have had some reason to don silk... and that low, square neckline... had she been hoping to tempt him?

If so, it was working. A slow, beautiful flush coloured the exposed tops of her lovely breasts, and she lowered her eyelashes. It had a devastating effect on his self-control.

He stood and pushed his chair back, and strode around the table to her. She looked up at him, startled. Unfurling a hand as he loomed over her, he asked shortly, "Christine, will you come to bed with me?"

"Why... of course," she said, sounding confused, and unknowingly passing the test he had impulsively laid out for her. She put her hand in his and rose, and he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. Clearing up dinner could wait. The urge to forget his fears in the sweet oblivion of his wife's body, and to hear her crying out his name and only his name, was too overwhelming, and he had never been a patient man.

O-O-O O-O-O


	30. Chapter 30

Hi all, here is the next chapter. Sorry about the long wait again; hopefully this one makes up for it!

 _Chapter 30. July 1887._

Reassured by the doctor's comments, Erik sought to push away his grim thoughts by reclaiming his husbandly rights, but took care to be as gentle and cautious with Christine as he could be. This she tolerated for a few nights, but eventually he found himself sharing his marital bed with Sir Richard Burton.

"Christine, what have you got that for?"

"I want to try things again, like we used to," she said, laughing as she turned a page. They had both had too much wine at dinner, and Christine was inclined to be rather giggly. "Oooo, how about this one? What's it called? I can't read the English words."

" _The Tail of the Ostrich_?" said Erik, scandalized. "Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"Because I could break your neck trying to do that."

"Oh, you could not," she scoffed. "Why would they put it in the book if it was dangerous?"

Erik was about to reiterate his previous comment, when he realised that pointing out his extensive knowledge on the breaking of necks was probably not a good idea. He settled for merely explaining, "Because, my sweet, the Orientals love nothing better than to joke about this particular topic. The author probably put that in there just to be humorous, without intending anyone to take it seriously."

"Oh. All right. How about... this one?"

"The Splitting Position, the one that is specifically recommended for older men? Minx. I see, you intend to wear me out prematurely so that you can have some peace." For once, he meant it in jest. Likely that was the wine talking. He must have had more than he thought; he wasn't even making much sense. Though fond of good wine, he did not usually overindulge in alcohol, fearful of the loss of the constant vigilance that he was convinced was the only way to be safe. But with Christine as his wife, he was finding himself doing a great many things he had not meant to, and that vigilance in which he placed his trust was slipping. Rather foolhardy, that. It could very possibly prove his downfall. He should be quite concerned about it, really. He must remember to, later. Just now, stretched naked in their bed, with Christine in the same condition and the lights lowered, just the two of them immured in their silent underground kingdom, it seemed impossible that anything could ever happen to them. This Persephone returned her Hades' love and desire – or rather, she did most of the time. At present, Christine did not seem to be finding his jest amusing. Her eyes were large and round as she stared at him, her mouth slightly open.

"Don't even think it," she breathed. She flung herself at him and kissed him. The Oriental volume crashed to the floor, pages askew. Joking and experimentation both were forgotten, as she pressed their bodies tightly together as though she wanted to fuse their bones to each other. Her hands slid over him, and she kissed him again and again, so passionately that he could not breathe. He tore his mouth from hers and lowered it to her breasts, till she rolled onto her back, taking him purposefully with her. He mounted and plunged, and it seemed that she drew him into her, rather than him claiming her. She writhed against him, demanding and urgent; he rode gladly to her spurs, giving her the proof of his vigour that she wanted. He wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, lifting her shoulders up, so that as she climaxed she was suspended in the air, anchored only by the point of their connection. She cried out, the sound of her desperate pleasure catching him and bringing him along with her.

Afterward they lay together, with Christine clinging to him like a limpet. "You mustn't leave me," she moaned. "You mustn't."

"I shall do my best not to, dear," he answered, trying to comfort her with levity, "but you know, I may not have all the say in the matter."

Undeterred, she only clung tighter, and repeated, "You must not leave me."

"I will not, then, if you do not wish it," he finally said. He was ready to promise anything if it would only soothe her. And he was utterly unable to stifle a wild delight that a woman would want him with her this badly.

She sighed and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, and then slipped into sleep, her body going limp and trusting against his. He turned his head and laid his distorted cheek on the softness of her hair, wondering whether he could trust that this happiness would continue.

O-O-O

"Erik, do you want a boy or a girl?... _Erik_."

"What?"

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes, Erik heard Christine." This was not actually true, but he thought it better not to say so.

"Then answer me, please."

"Erik has not even considered the question. Why would you ask?" A bluff, made in hopes of getting her to reiterate the question he hadn't heard her ask him.

"I just wanted to know… _Erik_. Would you prefer a son or a daughter?"

"Is that not already decided, Christine? Even though we do not know yet?"

"Well, yes, of course, but I was just wondering. I thought perhaps you would want a son. Men usually do…Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Do you want a son?"

"What for?"

"Don't be difficult. To... oh, I don't know, carry on your legacy or something like that."

"My legacy is hardly one that should be carried on."

"Oh, don't talk like that. And stop ignoring me."

Erik set down his work and turned to face her, struggling to maintain a neutral tone of voice. He did not entirely succeed, and while he managed not to sound angry, refraining from sarcasm too was beyond his current capabilities. "All right, Christine, have it your way. Our son, should we have one, shall carry on the family business. Where shall we find him a position? Should we inquire at the Comedie-Francaise as to whether they are in need of their own resident ghost?"

"You are impossible."

"Then do not ask me questions like that," he said irritably, turning back to the parts strewn on the table. Christine had demanded his company in the parlour after a late dinner, and as he was at a point with the latest automaton where he needed to work on a section of its gears which was fairly portable, he'd brought it into the other room in hopes of accomplishing something and still placating her at the same time. But though he could certainly keep several objects soaring through the air at once with no trouble at all, his magician's skills were sadly unsuited to this situation. Christine, lounging on a couch and eating chocolates out of a box, was in the mood to talk, and had been doing so to such an extent that it was driving him mad. Previously he'd simply stayed in his workroom if he were doing something which required great concentration, but he had heard many times that pregnant women were overly emotional, and after their last quarrel, he did not dare risk it.

"What did you think of tonight's dinner?"

"It was – fine," he said distractedly, reaching for a tool.

"Can we go out to the park again soon?"

"If you wish."

"Is it as nice to do that with me as you imagined it would be?" Her tone was flirtatious now, which went lamentably unappreciated by her preoccupied husband. He had barely heard her comment, and did not realise that she wanted love talk from him.

"Oh…perhaps…I do not know." He held an intricate part of the contraption carefully between thumb and forefinger.

She frowned, but he did not notice.

"Well, I'd like to do that the day after tomorrow, then. I would say 'tomorrow,' but I'm going shopping with Meg tomorrow afternoon. If that's all right with you?" Reaching for a fashion journal, Christine cut an eye towards him questioningly, but he gave no answer. She began flipping idly through the pages.

"She wants to get a new hat, and I need another light dress to get through the summer with. I was thinking maybe a cotton muslin? I've already got a sheer cashmere for dressy things, and I don't want a sheer silk, it wouldn't wash. I'll be glad when fall comes, it's been so hot outside. That doesn't matter when I'm down here, of course, but I have to go out to see Mama and to go to church and to the market, and to see friends. Madame Masson asked me at last Sunday's mass to tea at her home next Tuesday. Is that all right? I need to send her a letter letting her know if I can come, because I told her I'd have to ask you…Erik? _Erik_!"

This time, he'd gotten sufficiently involved in what he was doing as to forget she was there, and her sharp remark startled him. The tool slipped, and broke a complicated part of the mechanism that he'd spent an hour on. He slammed a fist down onto the table top in rage.

"Damn it, Christine, now look what you've done! I can not do this with you chattering at me like a magpie! Leave me alone to work or keep quiet if you want me out here!"

She leaped up, dropping the magazine, overturning the box on her lap, and scattering chocolates everywhere. "What is the point of being married if we never spend any time together?"

"Woman, you wanted Erik to stop collecting his salary! Well, now he must work for a living instead, and it takes time!"

"You have all the time in the world for everything other than me! You're at your instruments or you are in your workroom, or you're upstairs wreaking havoc. You never want to be with me except when it's bedtime!" With this last and most unkindest cut, she raced out of the room and slammed the bedroom door.

Erik clutched his head with both hands in angry frustration. It was not at all true that he didn't want to be with her, of course. How could she think such a thing? And he was _not_ always in one of the places she'd mentioned. He spent several minutes thinking of all the ways in which her assertions were incorrect, and why he was justified in what he did do. She had insisted, very early on in their marriage, that he give up his extortion scheme with the managers, and he had done so, to please her. But that meant he had to do something else to bring in funds. Erik had quite a large amount of money saved, hidden in various banks and investments, as well as a few caches hidden in secret locations around the Opera House for emergencies, but life was an uncertain thing and he did not want to start drawing on that reserve unless absolutely necessary. Especially not now that he had another person depending on him. It was a man's duty to support his wife. His restless eyes roved around the room, not really seeing things, until they settled on the medical texts waiting for him on the book shelf. Oh, Christ. Two people depending on him, before long.

He did not want to work any more on his previous project; he was still too angry at its being ruined. Perhaps it would be better to have a look through those books and journals. There were still…what, six and a half months of her pregnancy left to go? He would need to know how to avoid further debacles like tonight.

A short period of reading resulted in his slamming the book shut and leaping up. The specifics of this were too much for him to contemplate now. And Christine had been talking ecstatically and incessantly about the baby ever since she had told him of its impending arrival; that subject was, really, the last one he needed more of just now. The books had to be consulted, but he would return to it later, when his mind was easier. Music would help…but the door to the Louis Philippe room was resolutely closed, and there was no sound from inside it. If Christine had gone to sleep, she would be further angered if he woke her up with noise.

Erik took up his violin, and went to the roof of the Opera House. Now no one would hear him, or, if they did, they would not be able to tell where the sound was coming from. When, after the long trek upward, he arrived there, it turned out to be a warm and very pleasant night. A small breeze was blowing, and the solitude and the starlight helped to soothe his agitation. No need for the cloak on a summer evening like this; he tossed it and his soft felt hat aside. Setting bow to strings, he sank gratefully into his own music, and lost all track of time.

When his fingers were finally aching too much to continue, he stopped, lay down on his cloak, and put an arm under his head for a pillow, staring up at the great expanse of the night sky and drifting on the gentle waves of the peace that the silent stars and his music had given him. He dozed on and off, ignoring the hardness of the metal roof under him, till he opened his eyes yet again and saw that the sky was lightening.

He had been out here all night. Erik had once been wont to do so from time to time, but not since his marriage. A tiny dart of anxiety went through him. He had not known for certain that Christine was asleep, nor left a note for her. She normally slept heavily, but if by chance she had awoken during the night, she would have had no notion where he was. By now he knew from past experience that that would upset her.

Fear of wifely displeasure warring with a quivering joy that a woman would actually want him with her at night, Erik went down from the Opera House's roof as fast as possible, violin in hand. After a brief detour down the street for fresh croissants and several of the macaroons that Christine loved, he made the trip to his home only to find that she was still asleep.

Well, it was quite early, and she was a late riser if left to her own devices. He'd thought she might have woken earlier than usual today owing to having possibly gone to sleep earlier last night, but apparently not. Nothing had changed in the house, and there was no indication that she'd been up during the night. Perhaps the pregnancy was making her more tired than was typical for her? If that were the case, he should let her alone now; the croissants would have to wait. He set them down on a side table, and glanced around him.

The parlour was in a unequivocal state of untidiness, as no one had attended to it last night. The chocolates were still scattered across the floor, Erik had left a mess of gears and tools all over the table he'd been using, and Christine's fashion magazines were strewn on the end of the sofa and her shawl hanging off its arm, not to mention the fact that the grate required sweeping out before another fire could be lighted. Erik decided that in the event that his wife was still angry with him when she did wake, augmenting the gift of croissants and sweets with a neatened room and a warm fire might improve matters. He kneeled down and put the discarded chocolates into their box to throw away, then took them into the kitchen and shoved the lot, box and all, into the rubbish bin.

Once back in the parlour, he heard noises in the bedroom, and a moment later Christine came in, wearing a robe over her nightgown. When she saw him, she sighed and tucked the robe tighter around her, huddling into it. "Hello," she said morosely, not making eye contact with him. "Did you come to bed at all last night?"

"No. I did not want to disturb you, so I slept on the couch."

"It wouldn't have disturbed me," she said, sighing again and pushing her tangled hair away from her face. "I got into bed and lay there hoping you would come in to me, and then I fell asleep without meaning to."

"You wanted me there, after I upset you?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"The whole reason we argued was because I wanted your attention, remember?"

He approached her warily, and when he did not receive any signals from her that she wished him away, put his arms tentatively around her. She went into them willingly, and with something of an air of relief, pressing her forehead against his chest. He embraced her more tightly, kissing her cheek. Why in hell had he spent the night on a cold metal roof, when there was a warm bed with a warmer wife in it, waiting for him? That was something which the old Erik would have done, who had nothing better to look forward to than a lonely coffin. Would he never learn sense?

"I am sorry," he said quietly. "I misunderstood. Will you forgive me? I should not have lost my temper with you last night."

"I am sorry too. I should not have bothered you when you were busy," she said into his shirt-front, her voice muffled. "I must learn to let you alone when you are working."

He smoothed her hair with one hand. "I wanted a wife because I was half-sick of being alone," he said meditatively, as much to himself as to her. "And yet I find I still require a certain amount of solitude. How strange life is. That which I cursed and sought to put an end to…I need."

Erik felt Christine's arms tighten around him, and she lifted her head and breathed, "That which _I_ cursed, and sought to flee from, _I_ need." She kissed him then, and the kiss swiftly grew passionate. He reached for the sash of her robe and pulled it loose, exposing the soft white of the flimsy night-dress that was far from being enough to keep his hands from her.

O-O-O

"I am the luckiest man on earth," said Erik, winding a strand of Christine's hair around one finger.

"Mmmmm," she said, keeping her eyes closed, and he felt the vibration through his sternum. She was lying with her head on his chest as he reclined against the pillows, their fabric smooth against the bare skin of his back.

He closed his own eyes, letting himself stay in the bliss of the moment just a little longer, and then opened them and said resolutely, "And it is time I began fulfilling my responsibilities to my wife."

Christine lifted her head and looked up at him. "Oh? What responsibilities?"

"A normal house," said Erik firmly. "We decided to rent one until I can get the new house built, remember? I shall go out and find an agent today, and take you to look at some as soon as possible."

"Don't wear your cloak," she answered, dropping her head back down. "The Opera Ghost surely wouldn't be renting a 'normal house.' "

O-O-O

Erik went out after breakfast, came back late in the afternoon and discussed available rental houses with Christine over dinner, and retired to bed when she did. The next day was spent quietly together, till Erik began working again on the score for the _Divine Comedy_ late in the afternoon and in short order was utterly consumed by it. Forbearing to pester him about a dinner he clearly didn't want, Christine let him alone this time, and he stayed up nearly the entire night composing, working his way through an important section of the piece and finally collapsing into bed just as Christine was getting up the next morning. She kissed him and tucked him in, and walked out to the kitchen to breakfast by herself. It was worth doing so, in order to make sure he got some rest. She did worry about his health from time to time, given his age.

She went to spend the morning with Mama Valerius, and after a few hours spent answering the same questions over and over, departed regretfully and walked to a market to pick up fresh food for dinner. They were out of bread and produce, and a few other things. A side trip to the patisserie for cakes to take home for herself, and another to a flower shop for a bouquet for the table, and with a full basket over her arm, Christine returned home to find that her husband was still sound asleep. As she set the basket down on the kitchen table, the clock chimed two pm, and she suddenly thought of an excellent way of devilling him. Smirking, she went into their bedroom.

He opened his eyes as she entered, as she had known he would, and she walked over to the side of the bed and put her hands on her hips.

"Why have you not finished dressing so late in the day? It is two o'clock in the afternoon."

He gave her a cold look, and did not deign to answer. She reached for his watch, which he had set on the nightstand before changing into a nightshirt.

"Oh, do not go that far, woman," he said. "Must you always be reminding your poor husband of how boorish he was while in the depths of his madness?"

"You have half an hour to get ready to come and have lunch with me," she said with mock severity, winding the watch. "Most improper, not to be correctly attired at this hour." She put the watch back, and watched his expression change from annoyed, to guilty, to hen-pecked, then back to annoyed.

"I am not hungry, Christine. Go away and let Erik sleep."

"I enjoy your company too much to deprive myself of it any longer," she said sweetly. "Up." And she tripped lightly out of the room, to head into the kitchen and prepare him the largest plate of food she could manage.

O-O-O O-O-O


	31. Chapter 31

Erik is still Erik, even at a time when most people would be very happy... bit of a short chapter here, but it was the logical break point in the text. I will try to post the next chapter soon, to make up for it!

 _Chapter 31. July 1887._

"Shall this do for a time, then?"

Erik's question was asked in a tone which held a hesitancy not remotely like the commanding tones of "the Phantom." But he wasn't the Phantom right now, in any way; he was a man, who was walking through a house a few steps behind his wife as they discussed whether it would be a suitable one to rent until their own was completed.

"Yes, I think it will be all right," Christine answered. "The kitchen is quite small, and the street outside is busier than I think you would prefer. It will be different living in this neighbourhood. But it is in a good location, and I like the layout of the rooms."

Houses in the center of Paris, when available at all, rented at astronomical prices, and Erik had refused absolutely to consider living in a flat, cheek by jowl with other people. The landlord, he said, would throw them out the very first time any of the neighbours heard them quarrelling, or _Don Juan Triumphant_ being played. Christine would have preferred to remain close to Mama Valerius, but she knew he was right. So she had consented to look at houses in areas which had good transit service into the 9th arrondissement. She stepped in front of the house's bay window, and turned slowly on the spot, gazing at the shafts of sunlight pouring through it. Then she caught sight of her husband's expression.

"What is it?"

He stood in the doorway, one gray-gloved hand on its frame. "Oh... it is only that... to see you in the light like that, with it falling on your hair, and know that you are my wife... and listen to you talk about us as though we are any normal married couple looking for a house to rent... it is like a dream."

Christine was quiet for a moment, and then she echoed, "A dream... ?"

"Yes. And one which... I never thought would become reality."

She stood and looked at him, as she heard the sound of the daroga's voice, tactfully keeping the rental agent occupied in another part of the house. There was such a look of tenderness in Erik's eyes, a timid joy, that she went to him and kissed him, just a quick brush of lips lest they be seen, awkward around the latest version of the lifelike mask. But it was a promise, and a reassurance.

She drew back, and, looking into his eyes, said, "It has become reality, and I am your wife."

"Thank God," he breathed, gazing at her, and she knew that if they were alone, he would be kissing her again now, far more passionately.

She squeezed his hand instead, and said, "I think this house will be fine. It is small, but it will do for us for a little while."

"I am sorry the new house is not built yet," he told her. "I should have started the process as soon as we were married."

"That is all right," she replied, "It would not be ready right now anyway, if you had only begun three months ago. And I liked living in your beautiful house under the Opera. But that won't do once the baby is here."

Something changed then, and it was as though he froze very suddenly in place. A veil slid down over his eyes, hiding away from her the emotions that just a second ago had been blazing there for her to see clearly. He ducked his head, and then stepped away from her, saying tonelessly, "If you wish to take the house, we should tell the man so, and start the process moving." He went out of the room and down the hall.

Christine stared after him, confused and distressed. What had happened? She heard him telling the agent that they would rent the house, and even from this far away she could tell that there was a strange note in his voice which she could not understand. Apparently the Persian heard it too, for she heard him ask Erik if all were well. Erik retorted swiftly that it was, and now Christine could hear a distinct edge to his voice. Oh, dear. The daroga had known Erik far longer than she had; why did the man insist on asking her husband questions at times when Erik obviously didn't want to be bothered?

They went back to the Opera, dropping the Persian off at his flat. Erik said not a word in the carriage or on the way down below, but went immediately to his piano and began to play. Christine curled up on the couch and listened, watching his stiff back and wondering what she could do to bring him out of this sudden ill humour.

He must be nervous about the baby. She supposed it must be harder for a man who married later in life, to adjust to the rapid changes that came with a wife and child. Maybe he just needed a little more time to accept it. And he could have that time; the birth was still six months off.

Surely... surely he didn't wish it weren't coming at all?

No. No, that could not be. Christine went on listening to his playing, until her stomach informed her it was time to eat. She rose off the couch and said, "Erik, I'm going to fix dinner."

She'd deliberately pitched her voice so he could hear it above the piano. But he did not respond or even nod. She stood uncertainly for a moment, and then went into the kitchen, repeating her statement as she passed him. But he still gave no sign that he had heard. By the time dinner was on the table, his mood had changed once again, and he drew her into a conversation about inconsequential things with what seemed very much like false cheer. She felt sorry for him, for the unease which must be the explanation for his odd behaviour, and was careful this time not to press him about his moodiness. Little by little, he seemed to relax somewhat, and she was convinced that she must be correct about the cause of it. She resolved to be as tender and gentle with him as she could, and he would soon adjust to the situation. As they talked, Christine began imagining him standing in the light by the bay window of the rental house and holding their child. Would it have his hands? Surely it would inherit its father's genius; although, she had to admit, that might be a bit of a problem should it be a girl. How would she ever find a husband, if she were that much more intelligent than most any suitor that might come calling? Perhaps it would be better if it were a boy. Would he like a son? It seemed logical to Christine that Erik might have an easier time understanding another male; he was always so baffled by feminine things.

Erik broke off in the middle of a sentence to ask, "And what are you smiling at, Christine?"

"Nothing," she said, not wanting to mention the baby again now that he was in a more pleasant frame of mind. "Do you want any more chicken?"

"No, thank you."

"I'll get the creme brulee," she said, pushing back her chair and standing up.

With dessert Erik drank brandy, which he did from time to time, and Christine noticed that he had poured rather more into his glass than was usual for him. But she said nothing, and he became gradually more jovial as she led him into a discussion of how cleverly Offenbach had satirized the emperor in _Orpheus in the Underworld_. Yes, this was the best way to deal with him just now. She smiled at him as much as possible, and made flattering comments about his wit and his ability to explain things to her, and all traces of his earlier mood seemed to be gone. Feminine wiles, on occasion, came in very handy indeed, and she wondered how wives managed who were married to men wiser to the ways of women than her poor Erik was.

O-O-O O-O-O


	32. Chapter 32

_Chapter 32. July 1887._

Christine turned over in bed, stretching luxuriously. She had been having a lovely dream, but even a few seconds after waking up she already couldn't recall much of it. Oh, well. That was the way of dreams, wasn't it? The ones you had while you were asleep, at least. She blinked at the ceiling, wondering why she had a vague feeling that something was wrong.

"Oh!" She sat up suddenly and grabbed for the alarm clock. What time was it – oh, no. Three o'clock! She threw off the blankets and leapt out of bed.

Earlier that week, Madame Giry had invited Christine to tea, at four. There would be just time to get there by that hour, if she rushed. Christine ran for her armoire. Throwing off the wrinkled chemise she had been sleeping in and pulling a fresh one over her head, she thought of the story which Adele had told her when, shortly after the wedding, Christine had gone to visit her and asked how she and Erik knew each other so well. The older woman had indeed told Christine some of the tales she had learned in her long association with Erik, and the small china teapot had had to be refreshed twice.

Dragging a gown out of the closet and pulling it on, Christine thought of the things that Adele had told her. That scar on Erik's throat was the mark of a time long ago when he had escaped death by a hair's breadth. In the section of the brash new city of San Francisco known for good reason as the "Barbary Coast," Erik had double-crossed the band of criminals he was working with once too often, and their leader, upon discovering his treachery, had flown at Erik with a knife.

"I'll take that devil's voice from you, right along with your life, you scum!" Erik had been only twenty then, his skills at hand-to-hand combat not yet fully developed, and the attack had happened so quickly that Erik had barely had time to defend himself. The knife had slashed his throat before he could knock the man away from him. Deep enough to leave a scar, but – barely – not deep enough to do any damage to his precious voice. Erik had come away from the encounter determined that he should never be in such a situation again, driven now to find a weapon that would be lethal from a distance. The other man, for his part, had not come away from the encounter at all. His intended victim's throat had soon healed, and the scar was easily hidden underneath collar and cravat.

"And where are you off to, wife?"

Christine, hurriedly putting on a brooch, turned to see her husband standing in the bedroom doorway, and said, "Out to take tea with Madame Giry." She fumbled to fasten the pin, her sweaty fingers slipping on it. "Oh, dear!"

"Why such a hurry, Christine?"

"I took a nap and slept too long. Now I am going to be late if I don't hurry." Christine went rushing past Erik and snatched a hat down from its shelf.

"A shame," Erik commented. "I should have liked your company."

"Well then, come to tea along with me," said Christine absently, plopping the hat on her head over her coiled hair and sliding hat pins into it. "I doubt Madame would mind. She likes you."

He shuddered. "God, no. Sitting with my hat and stick next to my chair and making small talk about the weather and the latest scandals? That is not included in the list of Erik's talents."

"You'd have more to endure than that," said his wife tartly, leaning closer to the mirror and perfunctorily fluffing the fringe of curls on her forehead. "When there is a man present at a tea, it is his duty to fetch and carry for the ladies, and walk round the table with the trays of sandwiches and cakes, offering them to all."

"It is?" His brow furrowed. "Is that not the responsibility of the servant?"

"No, it isn't. You send the servants out after they bring the tea things, so the guests can talk freely. And in any case Madame only has a girl who comes in a few afternoons a week, not one who is there all the time, and she isn't trained to wait on table."

Erik looked further baffled, and then shrugged and visibly abandoned that topic of conversation, in favour of looking at her admiringly.

"You are very pretty today, Christine. That shade of pink becomes you entirely too well. Do ladies always dress so finely for teas?"

"This isn't that fine," she scoffed, digging through a drawer. "It's only a plain silk with a summer-y overskirt."

"All the better," he assured her, stepping forward without warning and, turning her to face him, pulled her into his arms. She squeaked in surprise and annoyance. "Much more elegant. Dare I ask how much all this lace cost me?" He lowered his mouth to her neck, which was exposed in a v-necked bodice, due to it being the height of summer.

"I love you," he breathed in her ear. "I was just working on one of the love duets in the _Comedy_ , and it made me think of you…"

"I love you too, but I am late, and…" Ignoring her words, he began nuzzling her throat, the fingers of his left hand stroking her back.

This was decidedly not fair, thought Christine, her resistance ebbing. He knew perfectly well how it affected her when he kissed her neck, and he was using that to his distinct advantage. With an effort of will she gathered her rapidly fleeing wits and shoved at him.

"Not _now,_ I haven't time! I told you, I'm late already! After I get back. And lace – _Erik_ – is fashion – Erik, stop that! How many hands do you have? Ten? – Fashionable!" Christine huffed in frustration as she extricated herself and smoothed down her overskirt, which was in fact entirely composed of ivory lace, draped and swagged asymmetrically over a pleated pink organdie underskirt. "And you don't want to know how much it cost, I assure you." She grabbed a purse and stuffed a clean handkerchief into it.

"No, indeed, I don't," he agreed, and his voice had turned to velvet, smooth and gliding. Christine's hands stilled, and all of a sudden she had trouble remembering what it was she was in a hurry _for_. Whatever it was, surely it wasn't that important…was it?

"I have... more _pleasurable_ things on my mind just at present..." Erik had moved around behind her, and now he embraced her once more. She did not fight him. "My Christine…my love…you are the most beautiful woman in the world." He went on speaking, in a tone so low and throbbing that it reverberated through her body and all the way down to her toes. A sweetly languid desire overwhelmed her, and she leaned bonelessly back against him, tingling deliciously all over. He was kissing her neck again, the back of it this time, and singing enticingly now in an irresistibly compelling way. His hands slid possessively onto her hips. She felt herself relaxing, as the beauty of his voice worked its subtle wiles... how wonderful it was all going to be…

The clock chimed loudly, right above her head, and jolted her back to full awareness. She looked up at it, and saw that several minutes had passed. She would be late for certain now. Why had she consented to allow him to embrace her like this right when she needed to leave? Her purse was lying on the floor at her feet; when had she dropped it? "Erik, please, let me go!" she insisted, twisting in his arms. "I shall be late! Please!"

"Thwarted by a clock," he said ruefully, releasing her reluctantly. "And me a clockmaker. Are you _quite_ sure you must go right now?"

Crosser with herself than with him, Christine put her hands on her hips and scowled. "Would you like to be the one to explain to Madame exactly why I did not appear at tea after accepting her invitation?"

"You win," he informed her. "No, indeed, I would not. Words might actually fail Erik under those circumstances."

Christine snorted. "That, I would like to see. I am going, _now_. I will be back in two hours or so."

"You realise I shall enact a heavy price later for my forbearance now, don't you?" he asked.

"Oh, Erik," she said, exasperated, and he turned abruptly fearful.

"You are not angry with me, Christine? It is only that I love you." Her heart melted, just as swiftly, and she said, "No, I'm not angry with you, just upset with myself for being late. I should like to stay here with you, but I can not."

"I shall return to my composing then, and anxiously await your return. Come back soon, Christine, and I shall show you how much I love you."

"I love you too," she answered, and that light of cautious happiness, which always made her heart ache with mingled tenderness and pity, shone in his golden eyes. She rose onto her toes and pulled his head down to kiss him, long and lingeringly, before heading out of the house and toward the street above.

Christine was halfway to the Girys' flat when she came to the appalling realisation that Erik had used his voice to manipulate her for the first time since they were married. She had thought they were past that. Briefly, she was thoroughly furious, stopping dead on the side walk as she remembered with utter revulsion the way he had broken her mind like one would break a horse to ride. There was burning shame there, too, at how credulous and naive she had been. These things she had tried very hard to forget, because she had to in order to be married to him, and after an initial burst of impotent rage and sickness, her mind rushed to try to explain it away.

He _had_ stopped when she insisted he do so. Surely... surely that meant something, didn't it? And... and this had been the first time he'd done this deliberately since their marriage. Had he been doing it deliberately? Or maybe... maybe he didn't realise he was doing it? Perhaps he sometimes accidentally let that unbelievably enthralling tone slip into his voice without meaning to? After all, they had not been arguing, or doing anything else that might have made him feel he needed to control her like that again. Surely after nearly four months of marriage, he couldn't have been that bothered by her pushing him away, when she needed to leave? She never refused him, otherwise.

He must have done it unintentionally. It had only been for a few moments. He couldn't have meant to use his voice maliciously on her again. Church bells chimed the hour, and she began walking again, not wanting to be any later than she already was.

She really ought to tell him how much the fact of his hypnotism of her repulsed her now. It made her ill to think of just how well he had worked her like a marionette, and how easily it could have slipped into disaster for them both, had he chosen to press his advantage when she was alone underground with him and completely helpless, with no one knowing she was there and no one who could possibly hear her if she screamed. He could have done anything he liked to her, anything at all, and there would have been nothing she could do about it, and if he had sung to her first she wouldn't even have put up any resistance. Had he mesmerized her and then told her to go out and murder someone, she could not swear that she would not have done it. It was galling to admit just how much power he had had over her, and could still have, should he choose to exercise it.

But of course he had power over her. He was her husband now. He could say where she could go and not go, and what she could do and whom she could see, and whether she could continue to sing at the opera or not. That was no more than the power any husband had over his wife, as God had ordained.

But Erik's voice... that was different. The things he could do with it, the way he could manipulate people, but especially her...

Due in no small part to Erik's actions, Christine had developed a horror of losing her will and her ability to reason. It made her gorge rise now to think of it. To become nothing more than a witless, helpless puppet... to have no sense of what she did or why she did it... Her mind made her who she was, and she could not imagine anything more terrible than to have it stolen from her again. And if Erik chose to do so, he could.

But... she had married him anyway. Married him believing he would never do such a thing to her again, and so she had never mentioned to him how much she had once hated him for it. She did not hate him now, nor had she when they kneeled together to be married, and she could not allow that to come between them again. She must tell him how she felt about it. If he had unwittingly slipped into an old habit, as it seemed he had, then once he knew how much it bothered her he would not do it again. She would find a way to bring up the subject, and lay it once and for all to rest.

O-O-O O-O-O


End file.
